Counterclockwise
by aerorolo
Summary: Post Reichenbach Fall. After an accident, John Watson awakes in a body he thinks is his own. But his wallet says that his name is Martin Freeman, and he isn't in his flat on Baker street. And then he meets Benedict Cumberbatch. JohnBenedict SherlockJohn
1. A Turn of the Clock

**Dreaming's author's notes: Hello, everyone~ This is a collab fic between myself and aerorolo, a little plot idea she came up with that I wanted to help write. We'll be doing the pattern of each of us writing a chapter, beginning with me. Enjoy!**

**Aerorolo's notes: Hey hey, everyone! I'm super excited to do a collab fic with my dear friend, Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare. I'm so glad to have her write this with me. Like what she said, we'll be doing a constant pattern on writing each chapter! Hope you like what we have in store for you all~**

Summary: _Post Reichenbach Fall. After an accident, John Watson awakes in a body he thinks is his own. But his wallet says that his name is Martin Freeman, and he isn't in his flat on Baker street. And then he meets Benedict Cumberbatch. He does, of course, mistake the man for Sherlock, but after some confusion and clarification, Ben decided to help the man-who-isn't-Martin find his way back home, to _his_ version of modern-day London. _

Pairing(s): _John/Sherlock, Benedict/John_

* * *

><p>Chapter 1: A Turn of the Clock<p>

* * *

><p>Doctor John Watson has a fantastic memory. He might miss details, but he can recall almost anything if he needs to, because he was trained to be a doctor, and doctors need to remember all they can if they want to do their job properly.<p>

However.

John doesn't remember much at the moment. He recalls, idly, a mugging attempt. He recalls retaliating. He recalls pain, tremendous amounts of pain, and briefly, sirens and the chemical, stale stench of the hospital. Other than that, John remembers little else. Only flashes, mere fragments of memory, and scraps of linger senses. Everything is hazy.

So when he wakes, he is disoriented and confused to the nth degree. He groggily sits up and rubs at his eyes. And he finds, oddly enough, that he is in no pain. He knows he should be; that mugger put up quite the fight, and so did John. But he feels nothing. He feels… perfectly _normal. _

Frowning a bit to himself, John gets out of bed and glances around. His stomach drops with a sickening cold feeling when he doesn't recognize his surroundings. He panics; this isn't the hospital, and this isn't his flat on Baker street!

He rushes to the window, looks outside. It's still London. London as he knows it, London as it's always been.

Some of the panic in John subsides. This, at least, is a comfort; he hasn't been taken hostage somewhere, isn't in some foreign place. He's in London. That's a constant that is comforting.

He wonders idly if, perhaps, he dreamt the mugging up. Maybe he got drunk, slept it off, had strange dreams. (It wouldn't be the first time. He's been doing it more and more often for the past few months. It's been over two years since Sherlock's fall from the rooftop of the hospital, and John would be lying if he said he wasn't still in a deep-seeded depression over it.) And then, in his drunken state, he went home with a girl? This could be her flat. That would make sense.

But as John looks around, there is no sign of any of his personal possessions anywhere. None of his clothes, not even his wallet. There is a wallet on the dresser, however, and he picks it up, wondering if, maybe, he accidentally went home with a married woman. A drop of guilt taints his heart, clenching it.

Except, when he opens it, he finds an ID with _his own picture _on it. But the name 'Martin C. Freeman' is written beneath it.

John panics openly.

"Martin?" comes a woman's voice, and John spins around to find a woman in the doorway. "Are you finally up? God, you slept like the dead. You must have been up all night again, haven't you? Excited to be filming _Sherlock _again?" and she smiles.

_Filming _Sherlock? What is she going on about? John's confusion grows, and he feels himself beginning to break out into a sweat, his heart racing; early signs of a panic attack. He struggles to clear his throat and breathe properly. He opens his mouth, but the woman says something before he can.

"Oh! I made coffee, it's on the counter. I need to take the kids out with me on an errand, and your cab should be here soon to take you to the set. That all right?" she says, voice as sweet as sugar and her face just as lovely. She tosses her hair with a hand and waves goodbye. "See you later, honey."

John nods dumbly and watches her leave, humming to herself. He can hear children, a boy's and a girl's voice, young, maybe around ten years old. They come into the room and smile at John, and hug him goodbye.

"Have fun shooting, Daddy! Can't wait to see you on the telly again!" says the girl.

"Can Mr. Cumberbatch come over again soon?" asks the boy.

And John is polite, says non-committal things – ("Oh, um, thank you, dear." "Ah, um, I don't know, maybe?") – and awkwardly hugging them goodbye. The woman appears again, takes the kids with her, and kisses John on the cheek as she leaves.

He stands in the bedroom, gaping, not sure what to think. Has he fallen into some sort of alternate reality? Is he dreaming again? John doesn't know. He's not sure he wants to.

But, apparently, he needs to catch a cab. He decides to do so; it might give him more answers.

XXX

Outside, he climbs into a cab, and the driver seems to know exactly where to go ("Back on set again, eh, Mr. Freeman? I love your show!"). And yes, John made sure to bring Martin's wallet to pay the man (and he does feel a little awful about taking this Martin fellow's money, but if he's filming, then he must be an actor, and actors make plenty of money, so he shouldn't miss a little cab fare). But nothing feels right.

John jiggles his left leg nervously, heel tapping, and his hands are clenching and rubbing in his lap, fumbling over one another. He makes sure to keep breathing steadily.

The cabbie seems to notice, even over the music and through the traffic. He glances in the rearview mirror and asks, "Nerves, Mr. Freeman? Don't worry; a bloke like you won an award for Christ's sakes. You'll be just as brilliant this year as last year!"

John shakes his head, because that isn't the problem. He's in someone else's life and it's wrong and he's just trying to figure out _how _and _why _and if there's a way to get back _home, _to his life. Because, yes, his life was plain and awful without Sherlock around, and he was in the dumps so deep down that he was drowning, but it was his life, goddammit, and he isn't out to take someone else's (and an _actor's _no less!).

It might have been a long, slow, painful turn around the clock, but now he's suddenly thrust into a life that's counterclockwise, and it's thrown him off his guard so horribly that John doesn't know what to do.

When the cab arrives at the set, John hesitates. He pays the driver, gathers himself up, and slowly opens the taxi door. And there it is, everything he knew, crammed into a tiny space. 221b, the shop beside it, everything. It's all… _fake._

"What the hell sort of world is this? Some place where my life is a show on the telly people watch for their entertainment?" John murmurs to himself, and he feels sick inside. Too sick to move very quickly.

People approach him, whisk him away to where he needs to be, and shakes his hand repeatedly, welcoming him back on set for – what are they saying? Series three? There's already been two series of this bloody show that parallels his life? –John has never felt so lost in his life, not even when Sherlock passed. This is a whole new level of being lost.

Makeup is put on him, and there, John is handed his usual clothes: jeans, shirt, jumper. He changes into them, and they feel familiar and comfortable. They hand him his jacket. They do his hair. And he lets them, because he's helpless to do anything else.

But as he emerges from makeup and wardrobe (he knows a little bit about television programs and plays and how they work; he can at least name a few things), he meets with a man who asks him if John has his script on him. John shakes his head.

Shit. Shit. He needs to know lines, doesn't he? But he doesn't know anything, he can't –

"Oh, well, here you are, then. Take my copy; I'll grab another. Go over them for a bit, yeah? Ben's over there. He'll run them through with you. We still have an hour before we start shooting scene twenty-six." And the man walks off, leaving the packet of papers in John's hands.

John licks his dry lips and flips through the pages. His name is written all over them, as are the names of everyone he knows: Molly, Lestrade, Mycroft, Moriarty… Sherlock. His breath hitches in his throat, and gives pause when he sees that Sherlock has _lines. _Which mean he's speaking. Which means he's _alive. _And by the look of it, most of it is between himself and his brother, and then a visit with Molly. In one bit, Molly is angry with Sherlock, cursing him for making her help him fake his death and distract John by lying about Mrs. Hudson.

Memories flood back to John about all of that, and suddenly, those moments are vastly more comprehensible. Why Molly avoided him after Sherlock died. Why Mrs. Hudson was so puzzled over John bursting through the door. And most of all, why he's has this vague sense of Sherlock, as if the man were still secretly alive out there.

Something like hope blossoms within John's chest, and he slowly makes his way over to where the man pointed him, to someone named Ben. He's still looking down at the script, trying to memorize at least scene twenty-six, since that's the one the man mentioned to him.

"Ah, there you are, Martin, my good friend!" booms a cheery voice, and it stops John in his tracks. He glances up. He _knows _that voice.

It's Sherlock. There, in the flesh, in his coat and blue scarf, hair parted as usual, eyes bright.

John's knees nearly give out. He feels dizzy, his head spiraling and his fingers beginning to tremble as they hold onto his script. His heart seizes in his chest, and while he saw the script, he didn't actually think – he can't actually believe –

"Sh-Sherlock?" he stutters softly, his voice choked.

Sherlock laughs heartily. "That was good, Martin! You should do it like that for the reunion scene, it would be brilliant." But his smile falls when John doesn't change. "…Hey, Martin, you alright? Did you sleep well?"

"Sherlock," John repeats. It's all he can seem to say. Actually seeing his former flatmate in the flesh again… it has more effect on him that he thought it would.

Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Okay, come on. That's enough. I know you won a BAFTA and you're a great actor and all, but is it really so hard to say, 'Hello again, Ben, nice to see you after all these months. Have a good break, did you?'"

"Ben?" John says, frowning slightly. He glances down at the script. There's a Benedict Cumberbatch written on the front, alongside the man, Martin, and a couple other men's names: Rupert Graves, Andrew Scott.

And then it clicks. Those are the actor's names, the actors who play the characters of the people John knows so well. And this man, the one in front of him, must be Ben, short for Benedict. And he must play Sherlock, John's dear friend Sherlock.

It makes John feel icy-hot inside with pain. None of this is real. Everyone is an actor, and Sherlock isn't alive, not really. There's just this man, Benedict, dressed like and looking precisely like Sherlock, and it's disturbing and painful and just a little bit funny. (But only a little.)

John swallows. "I know how this will sound," he begins, and Ben cocks his head at him. He struggles onward, "But I'm… I'm not this fellow, this Martin. I'm. I'm John. John Watson. And there's been some sort of mistake."

Sherlock – no, no, _Benedict, _John has to remind himself – laughs. "Good one! Sounds like something out of Doctor Who! Body-switching, or life-switching. That's a great way to get into character, Martin, very clever. I should try that. I'm Sherlock, not Ben. Yes, that's a good one."

John clenches his fists and shakes his head. He's a bit angry, now. Frustrated with the situation and the way this man doesn't believe him. He growls, "No! You're not hearing me! I _am _John! I was in an accident, and now – now I've waken up as someone else, or this is all a dream, and I don't know how to get out of it!"

But John wouldn't believe anyone who said the same thing to him. He wouldn't. He wouldn't look at Mrs. Hudson and believe her if she told him that she's actually some actress with a different name. It sounds ridiculous, were the roles reversed. But this is the truth; the utter, complete truth.

He just needs a way to prove it. Something, anything – hold on. "My wife, if she is my wife; I saw her this morning, but I don't know who she is, what her name is. Tell me, if I was Martin, wouldn't I know her name? Or his children's names for that matter?"

"Quit playing around, Martin. This is getting old. How would Amanda feel if you talked about her like this?" Benedict frowns. "This is taking the joke too far. You're not your character, you know. Did a few months away from the set mess with your head?"

"No, dammit!" John curses again. He thinks wildly for anything else, anything that could be proof –

And then he thinks of when he was in his dressing trailer, changing into his (real) clothes. His scar is still there. The bullet wound, the starburst on his shoulder from Afghanistan.

John tugs down his shirt collar, unbuttoning and pushing it aside. "There, see! My scar. Can't fake this, can I? Did Martin serve in Afghanistan and get the same wound? I bet not, because _I'm not Martin._"

Benedict stares at the shorter blond man for a long, long time, eyes flickering between the fire in John's eyes and the clearly-not-makeup mark on his shoulder, just off from his collarbone. Then, lowly, he answers, "Well, fine, then. You're John. But if you're John, then where is Martin?"

The doctor sighs with relief. Finally, he's got someone who's on his side who believes him. "I don't know. But I figure if we get me back home, to _my _London, we can get your pal back."

Ben smiles a little. "That's a relief. I'll help you, yeah? 'Two heads are better than one' and all. But I'd like to get him back soon; he's one of the best chaps I've ever worked with, and no offense, _John, _but I doubt you can act. So just follow my lead, try to be yourself, and say what they tell you to, got it?"

And Sherlock _is _the best chap I've ever worked with, John thinks to himself. He will have to settle for Benedict for now, however. The man isn't Sherlock, but at least he will act like him, and in his secretly fragile state, John will take what he can get.

"Yeah, I got it." He laughs a little and walks with Ben onto set. As of now, his goal is to get through being on a television show and find a way to return the proverbial clock of his life to clockwise again.


	2. Becoming An Actor

**Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare and I are so happy about the response, thank you very much for taking an interest in this fic. **

**Hope you enjoy the rest! Thank you for reading! xxx**

* * *

><p>Chapter 2: Becoming An Actor<p>

* * *

><p>He could have brushed off the whole commotion that Martin was displaying earlier on, but the flare in his eyes – <em>that<em> look that his dear friend and co-worker showed. It was something that was far too brilliant for just anyone to channel such emotion and focus so easily, through one person to another. The look that Martin had when he was John, when _John_ would look at Sherlock – that same expression, was something that Benedict could not ignore when the other man announced that he wasn't the Martin that he knew so well.

"I-I told Sherlock that I would help him!" Benedict frowns, titling his head to the side, as John glances back and fourth from the script. "He needed my help, John." Dropping his voice, attempting to make the other comfortable in his current position, acting out as Molly.

Helping John run lines feels rather alien and surreal for Benedict. Probably because he is reading through Molly's lines, to give John a lift on things, but at the same time, whenever he peers back at the shorter male, he'd expect it to be Martin, rather than the real doctor.

John's mouth parts and then closes, an expression proving to Benedict, how he was still trying to wrap his head around the whole thing. He is probably as lost as Benedict is feeling right now.

"John! It's easy! Just pretend that I am Molly!" He throws an arm in the air.

"Doesn't help when you look like Sher-" John cuts himself off instantly.

Benedict feels his throat close up on him, as the other turns away, daring not to catch his gaze. John really was different, in comparison to Martin. The two stood on the spot for what felt like an hour, instead of two minutes, and Benedict did not tear his focus away from John, watching the man's chest raise and drop, with such concern and confusion. To what the actor thought John was about to break down, he was musing to himself on what to say back, without adding any awkward tension between them. They needed each other to make their future scenes turn out great and Benedict could feel his heart throb, knowing he was throwing the doctor off his game.

"John..."

_Think about how he feels, Ben!_ He thinks to himself, as John faces the actor slowly. He could only imagine how heart breaking it was, for John to expect to see Sherlock, when they're at each other's presence. He feels like he's giving the poor guy false hope.

"I know how hard this may be for you. And I promise you, John, that I will not fail you. I _will_ bring you back to your London!"

Admiration crossing John's face, as it loosens, into a small smile. That _same _look is something only John would feature to Sherlock. And like a bulb, flashing constantly above his head, Benedict reminds himself that Martin – no wait, John. Yes, _John – _was, indeed, telling the truth moments ago. He really is John Watson.

_But I'm not Sherlock. _Benedict's eyes fall to the ground.

A soft chuckle escapes John. The actor views up at the doctor. He's laughing. Laughing at Benedict. Wait, _laughing_?

"John, I'm confused." He faintly points out.

"Sorry!" John's laughter grows louder. "You just. I mean, you look like him and all. It's a bit funny to see you – well, I just imagine him, making the same face you just did a second ago!" His laugh dies down in seconds, wiping a tear out of his eye and his eyes catches Benedict's unreadable expression. He throws a fist in his mouth, trying to muffle more incoming laughter.

"Does this impress you, John?" Benedict lifts his chin in the air.

"To be frank, yes." The doctor's face lights up, dropping his shoulders from the tension earlier.

"Then, shall we run lines again? Or are you just going to keep laughing at me?"

"You awfully sound like Sherlock right now."

"Oh." Benedict swallows thickly. "I'm sorry."

"No! It's fine! I should take this seriously." Shrugging slightly. His smile remains on his face, as he looks up to Benedict. "I am supposed to be an 'actor'. I'll do my best next time, I swear."

"You better be because I want Martin back now." He sarcastically chuckles as the boys resume reciting their lines for the upcoming scene.

XXX

It intrigues Benedict, as he watches John, take on the persona for, well, _John_. He stares at his new friend – simple observation – making sure he'd cover for him on the spot, if Steven or Mark would comment on the doctor's performance. However, to his eyes, John is doing rather well. All he needs to do is recite the lines, and it works smoothly. To everyone else, it's just Martin playing John in the same fantastic and stunning way he usually does.

When it's Benedict's turn, John does the same: regarding Benedict being Sherlock. _His _Sherlock. Offset, Benedict smiles happily at the other, hoping he wasn't emotionally stabbing the dear man in the back.

"That's brilliant!" John grins at the actor, finishing his cup of tea.

"Thank you." Benedict returns the gesture with a pat on John's back. "My place after this?" He sees John raise a brow. "I'm afraid it won't be Baker Street but it can be somewhere we can discuss how we can get you back."

John's features change in a good amount of seconds, eyes fixed onto the actor's shoulder, before opening his mouth. "Err, sure. I wouldn't mind. I should, er, tell 'my' wife, right?"

"Did you bring Martin's phone with you, John?" Cocking a brow, in response to the doctor shaking his head. "It's alright. You can call her on mine."

"Funny how I need to use your phone." Absently smiling.

"It's no problem. I'm nowhere near like Sherlock. Do not worry." Winking at John, before the man is called to the set for another scene. John glances back, more worry written on his face, and Benedict could deduce the man so easily, because of his role for Sherlock and his knowledge on John, but he refrains himself from speaking any further into the manner. "I'll be here, waiting for you. Have fun!"

XXX

"Do you reckon the scenes we've filmed will happen in your world?" Benedict says, drumming his fingers over his chin.

John idly wanders around the actor's living room, before taking a seat in the armchair. It wasn't so long ago, since they finished shooting a few scenes and had come back to Benedict's apartment. "I don't know. Maybe. What do you think?" Staring up at the other.

The actor swings an arm over the couch, leg crossed over the other. "Possibly. Wouldn't it just be déjà vu for you, when you come back?"

"Yeah?" John answers, unsure of himself.

"So we need to figure out how to get you and Martin back in your proper places." Ben stands up from the couch, feeling John's eyes rest on him. "Let's have dinner! I can't think properly on an empty stomach. I'm starving, and I'm pretty sure you are, too!" He moves to the next room, the doctor following him. "What are you hungry for?" Opens the 'fridge.

"I don't mind anything. Chinese, maybe?"

"Take-away it is!" Benedict is bouncing with joy, turning to John's bewildered face. "What's wrong?"

"I don't think I'll get used to you jumping around and being all happy, without thinking you look like _him_." He says with a grin. John shakes his head, frowning at his own remark, a second later. "I'm sorry! I keep talking about him. You must be frustrated with me..."

"Like what I said, John, I am different compared to Sherlock and I've gotten used to you being John and not Martin." He states, closing the 'fridge door.

"That's because it's like Martin is always in character! With you, it's the opposite! I know you portray Sherlock, but everything that you do or say..." His words fade into the distance, as the pair stare at each other, unsure how to react or what to do.

"Are what you expect Sherlock to do? Or something, maybe, you would like to see Sherlock do, since he's hardly human?" Benedict finishes John's words, with a hint of bitterness in his tone.

"That's not what I said, Ben..."

"John, I'm not _him_!" Stopping the other from continuing. Hurt, drawn all over his expression; his voice shakes as he projects a bit louder, "I know it's been a very stressful and confusing day for you, but it sort of makes me feel out of the loop, knowing you only see me as him and not for who I really am." He lowers his voice, composing himself to be calm, instead of being fumed at John. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to be rude, John. Today's been crazy and I shouldn't have spoken to you like that." He's scared of moving closer to the doctor, as he runs a heavy hand through his locks.

John remains quiet as the actor makes his way to the door.

"I'll make a call for the Chinese, then." He proceeds out of the room.

And as soon as Benedict's footsteps grow fainter, John has finally let go of the tears he has been holding in for the entire day.


	3. Adjusting Accordingly

Chapter 3: Adjusting Accordingly

* * *

><p>As they eat dinner out of the Asian-themed take-away boxes, John can't help but sigh. He sets down his fork (he's not as skilled with using chopsticks as Benedict seems to be) and rubs his forehead for a moment. It was a small argument, really; nothing beyond trivial, but it lingers in the air between the actor and the doctor. And it's mainly John's fault why that is.<p>

What Benedict doesn't seem to understand is the sheer _uncertainty _that plagues John. Will he get home? Will his dear friend, the _real _Sherlock, return like he has in the script John's been reading and rehearsing and filming?

– Because that is what hurts so deeply every time he so much as glances at Benedict, even with the man out of costume: Sherlock's _doppelganger _is alive and well and (used to) think the entire concept of Sherlock Holmes is fiction (based on a book series, John discovers; and a book series that takes place far from modern day London, and John almost wonders, idly, how crime was solved as it is now without the forensic technology that's up to date) made real; whereas it's all so jarring for John to see said doppelganger in front of him, learning his life is a life in some alternate reality, and try to act accordingly without completely having a breakdown.

When John sighs again, Benedict stops and puts down his chopsticks. He laughs quietly. "I swear, if you sigh one more time, I'm getting you an oxygen mask to fill your lungs again _for _you. So what is it, John? What's with the silent treatment all of a sudden? –You can talk to me, you know. Um, that is… if you feel comfortable doing so. I'm not nearly as close to you Sherlock, but I can still be your friend in general. So what're you thinking about now?"

"Not much," John replies softly. "Just that I'm sorry I made it all so awkward. You just have to understand, y-you – you wear the face of someone I think is _dead. _My _best mate. _And I have this weird conflict, now: if he _really _dead? _Does_ your show predict my life? It's all so jumbled. And I can't help thinking: is my copy – er, doppelganger, twin, whatever – is he in my life right now? In _my_ London? He must be, because I can't think of anywhere else he'd be. And it must be worse for him, because he acts as me, sure, but I doubt he can be a real doctor, and I have a _job, _same as he does, and while I can do his – that's _easy, _I'm being myself but with specified lines – I doubt he can do mine. And he must be so lost, seeing faces of people he knows who are, for him, stuck in character. I just… keep thinking of all that."

"…Oh," Ben replies quietly. "I see." He heaves his own sigh, scratching his head for a moment before running his hand down his face. "Well," he begins, leaning his elbows forward, onto the table, "I can safely say I've been thinking the same thing, at least the bit about Martin. He's my friend, you know, like Sherlock was yours. Maybe not as close – we're not flatmates! – but still, he was a good co-star, always made me laugh, and always a joy to go to a pub with or have over for dinner at his place or mine. So I feel the same: worried about him. But that won't fix things."

"No, it won't," John agrees. He fiddles with his fork for a moment before glancing back up at Benedict, who is smiling kindly at the moment. It makes John's own lips quirk upward, just a bit. "But I have an idea of what we could do. I've been thinking, too, about how I got here: I got hurt, last I remember, before switching over to here. Think that has something to do with it?"

"Hmm, could be," Benedict thinks, fingers touching his chin in thought. He runs them partially down his throat before clasping his hands together and resting them on the tabletop. "But that wouldn't explain why it happened to Martin, too. He didn't get hurt or anything. He's been fine. I know; I keep in touch with him during the off-season. Like I said, we're pals."

"Right, I'm sure," John nods, "_But _maybe it was something else for him. Maybe he, I dunno, stumbled across something, like, magic?"

"Or a TARDIS," Ben jokes. John frowns in reply. Ben looks sheepish and clears his throat. "No, you're right, that would be going too far. Two shows from the telly can't both be real. My mistake."

John groans and rubs his face. "No, no, you could be right, actually, and that's what's so bloody frustrating! For all I know, The Doctor thought it would be a good idea for me to see the other side of things. You know, let me get a sense that Sherlock is alive, and let me walk in another's shoes for a while to take a break from my own, bleak, tragic life. Just for a change of pace, to lift my spirits or whatever other sentimental rubbish have you. I just wish I _knew._"

Benedict pauses, considers this. "…I see what you mean. If I were Sherlock, I would want to know how something was caused, how it _began,_ if I wanted to puzzle out how to fix it or change it back." He raises his brows, and his tone changes. "Pff, actually, I would just want to know that anyway, even if I weren't Sherlock, because that's just how normal science and logic works."

John laughs a little, breathy and strange-sounding to him. "That's true." He hums in thought and leans back in his chair. He glances down at his food for a moment before letting out another sigh. "Lost my appetite."

"I didn't," Ben shrugs as he picks up his chopsticks again. He peers up at John from under his brows. "But don't sweat it, alright? We _will _get to the bottom of this, for yours and Martin's sakes. It's just not right, being switched the way you two have. No one's life should be tampered with like that."

"No… certainly not," John agrees softly. He stands and asks Ben's permission to put a kettle on. Ben nods and continues munching on his food, and John is a little more than amused, because Sherlock would never eat as much as Ben does in one sitting. It's a wonder Ben is as fit as Sherlock; Sherlock rarely eats – usually too busy with a case, and isn't the sort to eat out of boredom – but his actor has a healthy, normal appetite.

John makes tea (with no sugar in his; like his coffee) and hands Benedict a cup as the taller man puts away the leftovers in his refrigerator. Benedict then moves to another room, and John follows, not sure what to do.

John plays with his teacup for a moment, hesitating a sip. "Ben?" he poses awkwardly.

"Hmm?" Benedict wonders as he swallows. "What?"

"Does Martin ever stay over at your flat with you?"

For a second, Benedict can't place what this question is supposed to mean. He glances over at the army doctor with a puzzled expression on his face, and it nearly makes John want to smile, because Sherlock _rarely _looks confused, if ever, and yet to see his face make that same expression… it's priceless.

Ben shifts in his chair, crossing his legs, and blinks once or twice before posing, "Why ask that?"

John inhales and exhales slowly, hesitating. He runs a hand through his hair, head bowed. "I ask because, well, I don't feel… _comfortable_ going 'home' to his wife and kids." He shakes his head. "It just wouldn't be right, even though I look like him. And if I undress at all, she – Amanda, you said her name was? – Amanda's sure to notice my scar. And unless she knows the show really well and why Martin would have that there, I doubt she'll put it off as leftover makeup or something. She'll know I'm not her partner. And the children might get suspicious of me; I'm not very good with kids, like I'm sure Martin must be. – So what do I do? Can I stay here instead?"

Benedict looks torn. He does a sort of half-nod, half-shake of his head. "Ah, no, I don't… He might have stayed here with me a night or two in the past because of a late night of filming, and Amanda never seemed to mind, but would it look odd if he – you – whatever – started spending every night here? You would have to go back to Martin's home _some_time."

John sighs. "I suppose you're right. It was worth a shot." He looks back to his teacup and raises it to his lips. Around a mouthful, he adds, "But I can stay here sometimes, then? To make it less awkward?"

Benedict laughs. "It's almost just as awkward anyway, since we've technically only just met today." He leans back and keeps his smile. "But at the same time, not so bad. I feel like I've known you longer; I've been around Martin-as-you for a couple years now, and I know your general history. It's almost unfair; you don't know much about me at all, do you?"

John shakes his head, grinning. "Certainly not, Mr. _Cumberbatch._ What the hell sort of last name is that, anyway?"

"And what the hell sort of _first _names are 'Sherlock' and 'Mycroft'?" Ben rebuttals, and John laughs, because he can't disagree with that. "Names are just odd, that's all." He peers at the clock and makes a face. "It's getting late. Should we call Amanda and tell her you're coming or staying?"

"Staying, preferably," John murmurs, staring into his tea as if it held the answers to everything. "But only if you let me. I don't want to impose on account of my, er, odd situation."

"You wouldn't be imposing," Benedict answers reassuringly. "Besides, it's all kind of exciting having _the _Dr. _John_ Watson in my living room. So feel free to use my phone again to ring Amanda, and I'll get you some pillows and blanket for the couch. – Would it be too weird to borrow my clothes?"

"Yes," John chuckles a tad shyly. "I'll just sleep in these, thanks."

"Alright," Ben concedes as he leaves the room to find said items. As he walks past John's chair, he drops his phone onto the man's lap.

While Benedict is busying about, John calls Amanda's number and hears it ring twice before she answers. "Martin, there you are! Enjoying yourself at Ben's?"

"Yeah," John answers quietly. "Say, um. I had a bit to drink while I was here; long say of shooting and whatnot," he says with a forced slur he hopes isn't too obviously feigned, "And so, um, I'm about to conk out. Is it alright with you if I stay here for the night?"

"Of course, honey," Amanda answers swiftly and easily. "Go right ahead. I'll tell the kids you'll be at Ben's, since they were asking about you. See you tomorrow!" and she says a quick, 'I love you,' before hanging up, and John's just a bit relieved that she didn't give him time to have to stutter it in return.

"What did she say?" Benedict asks as he reenters the room, nearly startling John out of his skin.

When he recovers, John replies, "She was fine with it. I lied a bit and said I was too drunk to come home, and she was fine with it. Is that something Martin's done before?" he smiles, watching Benedict lay out the spare sheet and pillow on the couch, half of the sheet draped over the back and half of it on the seat cushions. He folds it down, places a blanket over the top, and tosses a corner of both off to the side, leaving it open and ready to be slipped into.

"Yes, actually, if you can believe it," Ben laughs. "It was my fault. Took him to a pub to celebrate the last filming of a series. He couldn't hold his liquor, and I called Amanda myself and told her he was staying with me for the night. She doesn't mind our friendship at all; she thinks Martin's a real swell bloke."

"I'm beginning to think he is, too," John adds wistfully. He finishes off his tea and rubs his eyes. "Been a long day, though; I wasn't lying when I told her that. If it's alright, I'm going to sleep now."

"Yeah, it's fine," Benedict shrugs as he picks up his forgotten tea and moves to the kitchen to pour it out. "I'm going to shower and head to bed myself. Rest up, John Watson; big day ahead. More line-reading and filming, hurray!" And he's joking, his tone girly and sarcastic, and it's all John can do not to roll of his chair in a fit of laughter.

XXX

John doesn't quite remember falling asleep. In fact, he hardly recalls doing more than getting up from his chair to move toward the prepared couch before he's suddenly aware of being on set again. They're using a street in London to act as Baker street, which is a bit odd, because they have to remove signs and replace them with other things, and then, of course, when they pass by the hospital, it's the same hospital John knows so well, the same one where he had to watch Sherlock fall from, it's all a bit overwhelming.

Still, John puts up his best front and tries to smile more (he's been told by Benedict that Martin is as smiley as Ben himself), acting like this is all usual business and he's just _so _accustomed to being John that if he's acting unlike himself and more like John, it's on account of that (and not, you know, because the man they think is Martin actually _is _Dr. Watson).

After running lines, saying them on cue, and taking breaks, Benedict offers to have John return to his apartment again to watch other versions of Sherlock Holmes. Some of them are old, even black-and-white, and the newest of which (besides their show, but John refuses to watch it because he's _lived _it, and Benedict is respectful enough not to even suggest it, because he _knows _that John doesn't want to watch it, to be reminded of it) involves a man much too attractive to be himself, and John feels just a little inadequate in comparison.

But he agrees to it and watches the films anyway, his favorite being _The Great Mouse Detective_, because it's the least reminiscent of his life out of all the others. That, and John has always secretly had a soft spot for Disney animated films, but he would never admit to it to any of the people he knows – especially not Sherlock, whom would mock him, he's sure – and definitely isn't going to say so in front of Benedict for the same reason (although it had been Benedict who insisted they watch it as well, but that's beside the point).

John stays over at Ben's three out of the five nights of the week they spend filming a majority of the first episode of the third series, and somehow, John is able to escape Amanda looking into it. He gives the truth most of the time – mentioning his and Ben's "research" of watching other portrayals of their characters (of John himself, more accurately), and by saying he's too tired from filming and going over lines with Ben to return home.

The nights he does, however, go to Martin's house, John tries his utmost best to be polite and casual. He talks with Amanda, agrees with her if she mentions a memory, and acts as affectionate as he can manage without feeling too odd about it. Amanda is busy, as are the children, so it works out. They have meals together in the evening, and vaguely, John wonders if this is what it would be like if he were to leave Baker street and settle down.

One thing is certain, however: John never remembers falling asleep, only waking up or changing scenery, and it troubles him just enough to make it a problem. But he lets it slide for now, because the first thing on his mind is to begin researching body-switching and life-switching phenomena in books and movies. They might hold answers in them somewhere for his personal situation, or might at least give him something to try.

What's the worse that can happen, after all?


	4. Dream Myself Away

Chapter 4: Dream Myself Away

* * *

><p>"What if this is all a dream?" Benedict's jaw drops, as he types away into the search engine bar about body swapping. The actor's eyes are fixed to the laptop screen, reading through the links and opened tabs in the window. John raises his head in response.<p>

"Wh-What?"

"A _dream_! Just like that show, 'Life On Mars'!"

"I don't think this is a dream, Ben." The doctor shakes his head with an oncoming frown. "And if it is, wouldn't I be awake by now?"

Benedict combs his hand through his hair. He tears his view away from the laptop screen and onto John. "It's possible, John! We just need to find a way to wake you up!" He stands from his armchair, forgetting his laptop and starts to pace in the living room, hoping that walking will increase his thinking.

John's frown tugs at his lips and his eyebrows find a way to be knitted together. "Ben, if this _is _a dream, then..." He pauses, knowing what he'll say next but refuses to say it out loud.

The actor slows his pacing and his feet root to the ground as he does so. His jaw drops again but nothing comes out. He knows what John had been about to say, and it _is_ a bit strange how he knows what the doctor was going to say next. Finishing each other's sentences? How strange. It could be because he knows John so well, as a character.

The taller man folds his arms. "I'm sure I'm real." He denies his _own_ theory. "I can't seem to remember how that show ended but I think it was whether or not, it was a dream."

"So you don't think this is a dream?" John asks, as they lock eyes.

He takes a moment to recollect his own remarks and soon, heads back to the laptop, eyeing through the opened tabs. John sips his tea in silence, hearing Benedict type on the keyboard viscously. His question was soon to be answered, but John comes to the conclusion that, maybe, Benedict doesn't like the idea of being just a figment of his imagination. If it were true, the actor doesn't like it either. Benedict feels his heart throb again at the thought, and he takes in a gasp of air.

John turns to him, looking away from his tea. "Are you okay?"

"I'm dandy," he replies with a small smile, schooling himself back to his calm façade. He doesn't want to peer at John. He doesn't want to think he's an imagined being – someone in the back of John's mind, someone who is _fake_ and unreal.

"Why don't you let me research on the laptop and you can take a break, Ben?"

"Don't want to."

"Ben, let me help you." And he sounds like he's speaking to Sherlock.

"I'm fine." He says, harshly, without intending to do so. He shuts his mouth and stares at John, who gives him _that _look again. Benedict swallows again, as if it will lessen his troubles. Sadly, it does not help. So he stands up from the armchair and hands the laptop to John, fleeing into the kitchen.

"Where are you going?" John calls out.

"Making coffee!"

Benedict runs both hands through his now messy hair. It has been almost a month now and they are shooting the second episode. John has remained here, and Martin is nowhere to be found; or, rather, hasn't come back. He knows the other is starting to get worried. And to what they promised – to do research – is suddenly held back because of their filming. Time is money and John has slowly gotten used to their late nights, and he knows his lines perfectly. Like he were born to say them. _Of course, he _is_ John Watson! _

Ben breathes slowly, confirming to himself that he is real and alive. He flicks the kettle on and grabs a cup out of the cupboard.

"Do you need any help in there, Ben?" John raises his voice in concern.

"It's _just_ coffee, John!" Benedict runs a hand down his face. He eyes land on his shaking hand, and his heart rate increases while thinking about John.

_What the hell is happening to me? _It's impossible. It's like these aren't _his_ feelings anymore. It's as if there were a magnetic or magical force pouncing on him. How could he be feeling light headed around the doctor? He has no _feelings _toward him. John is the one that isn't real. Not him. He wants to believe that they are both as real as the day, but no matter how many times he recalls himself that he is merely helping John or that John will simply return back home any day, his body starts to shake and his heart races to an incredible speed. Something just doesn't feel right, and Benedict can't figure it out.

_No feelings for John? You sound like Sherlock, Ben. _He sighs at himself, just as the water stops boiling.

XXX

"What if I'm stuck here forever?" John chews on his bottom lip as the boys are taking their break from the last scene of the day. Benedict raises his brows and slowly shakes his head.

"My promise still stands with you, John."

"But what if all the researching and attempts for me to get out of here don't work? What if I'm stuck here for a year, or _more?_ I can't handle it! I can't be Martin forever!" He scoffs at himself. His shoulders grow tense and Benedict is found beside him, placing his hands on the doctor's shoulders.

"It's going to be fine, John. I swear." He wants to pull John into a quick embrace, but he suddenly feels apprehensive over his own action. The actor gives John a reassuring nod and the doctor gapes at the man in amusement. "I'm pulling a face that he would do, right?"

John's shoulders drop, when he smiles softly. "Would you be angry if I said yes?"

"Of course not, my friend." He beams back and he takes a step to go toward the toilet, but then he stops himself from proceeding. He turns back to John and they both share the same baffled look. He feels his throat close up when the doctor displays a thoughtful expression. Benedict is left with nothing to counter on what he had been about to say. "We should, um, get a drink in the pub tonight," he offers.

"Sounds like a plan." John smiles, tearing away from his previous thoughts.

XXX

Benedict isn't very sure how the night is going to end. He thinks he should hail a cab for John, to take him back home. But seeing as how it isn't strange to take him back to his place, he doesn't bother. It's unprofessional to be drinking whilst filming, but Benedict wants to make John feel more welcome – to show him that he doesn't have to hide behind Martin all the time – and that can be himself for once. And the only times when John is _John_, are either on set or when him and the actor are in his apartment, discussing about their current matters.

He's very good at keeping tabs on what he's doing. However, Benedict 's not aware of how they managed to get to his bedroom.

They were losing control – well, more like the actor is because he's completely lost on – _where the heck is my shirt? – _how he's suddenly kissing John. Nothing is making any sort of sense. Even he can't remember how they came out of the pub and managed to get into his bedroom. –It has to be the drinks. Oh, yes, it _has_ to be. However, nothing like this would have _ever _happened between him and Martin.

Benedict wills himself to stop; and yet he carries on anyhow, without any hesitation. His body is unresponsive to his mind. His lips are pressed against John's throat and a sharp moan is heard. There are no words, no exchange of how they are going to stop or how far they are going to take it.

And the confusing bit is: he _likes _it. He enjoys kissing John and claiming him with his mouth, all over the doctor's body. His mind is blank and nothing seems to stop him on what he wants to do next. Or is it? Does he really want to make a mistake and make it even more awkward between the two?

The pair stop abruptly and look hard into each other's eyes. Lust. Want. _Need_. This is so wrong but it feels so right; that sort of feeling courses inside both of them at an alarming pace.

John's mind catches up with his actions and his breathing starts to slow. He stares at Benedict, who is shirtless, of course, and he can already see a small red mark on the actor's collar bone. His lips part for a second and he starts to chew on his bottom lip again. His expression is unreadable and Benedict can't find a way to deduce anything from it.

They continue to look at one another in silence, until Benedict finds his speech again.

"Jo-John... I'm sorry." He says, so quietly, and it sounds like a whisper, but John hears him. "I... I..." His voice trails into the distance and he hangs his head low, staring at his bed covers.

John says nothing for a second, until he brings his lips back to Benedict. He gently brushes his lips against the actor's forehead and Benedict peers up and snatches another kiss from the doctor. They pull away from each other again and this time, they aren't as speechless as before.

"My..." The doctor frowns. "_Martin's_ wife."

"You're not married to her, John."

"Bu-But... I. You and me. I think we..." He whispers under his breath, trailing off at the end.

"Should stop?" Benedict raises a brow, finishing the sentence for him. He clears his throat. "We should get some rest. Got an early start tomorrow."

"No!" John tugs at his arm. "I…"

His gaze falls to the doctor's eyes and then down to his lips. He's filling with more _need_. Benedict feels as though someone is taking over his emotions and body movements. However, he has his ability to speak of his own free will, so he doesn't stop himself saying: "You want _this_." And in demonstration, his hands fall down to John's waist.

John's swallows thickly. He feels his heart pound and his body radiate more heat from the actor's touch.

"Y-Yes." And he sounds sure of himself this time.


	5. Blurring the Lines

Chapter 5: Blurring the Lines

* * *

><p>Part of John wonders if this is his fault. It very well could be; he has never been very talented at keeping his feelings hidden. He never said what he wanted to say to Sherlock before he died (and his therapist did try to get him to say it, too, but John simply <em>couldn't, <em>because it hurt too greatly; it just wasn't right to say 'I love you' to a dead man), but even so, John is sure Sherlock knows. Shouldn't he? After all, everything John has ever done when it came to Sherlock was act on his feelings for the consulting detective.

But. _But. _Sherlock was never very good at picking up on people's sentiments toward him, and he never indicated he held any sentiments toward others. He cared about John as a friend, John knows, but outside of that, he is left out of the loop.

And then, now, after this whole _switcheroo _and getting to know Benedict Cumberbatch, the man behind Sherlock's character in this world… John wonders if, somehow, he has projected his feelings for Sherlock onto this man, someone who's softer around the edges and more understanding of human emotion and can actually be responsive and reasonable about them. He wonders, then, deep down, is this is his fault. If he's somehow forcing Ben into obligation to fulfill some fantasy John once had (and still has?) about being romantically involved with his former flatmate.

If so – if this really is his doing – he isn't sure he wants to end it. And Benedict has a point: despite his looks, John _isn't _Martin, _isn't _Amanda's man, and therefore, has no attachments to her. This wouldn't be considered cheating if he keeps going. And God, does he _want _to keep going. He wants to map Ben's body with his hands, feel his skin with his mouth, and imagine somewhere in the back of his mind that this is what it would be like, how it would feel, if it were Sherlock in Ben's place.

John swallows, nearly audibly, and sounds increasingly more sure as he repeats, "Yes," to Benedict's question. He _does _want this, and if Ben is willing – if Ben cares enough to do it – then John will gladly take this as far as it will go without ruining whatever it is that's between them, and how the work on the job (because, _Jesus, _John knows they had a bit too much too drink tonight and they do have to film again tomorrow, but he can't find it in him to keep the indulgence at bay, to ignore the temptation to press on).

Benedict's eyes follow John's for a moment, as if reading into them, picking up John's thoughts. John feels a hot flush run down his body, because, _fuck, _that's what Sherlock does on occasion, and it has never failed to make John feel open and raw, mind bared for the other man to see, and if Ben opens his mouth at all in this moment to speak, John is sure that deep, strong voice will nearly knock him over.

"Alright, then," Ben responds lowly, and that does it, John is letting out a puff of air he didn't realize he had been holding, and his eyelids fall to half-mast. The actor proceeds, then, to lean in again and cover John's mouth with his own, his large hands seeking purchase on John's waist, hoisting up his shirt.

John falls back onto the bed and allows his shirt to be tossed aside, and it's a matter of milliseconds before hands are scanning surfaces, chests and spines and ribs, and they are tangling their legs together while kissing madly, almost blindly, sighing moans into each other's mouths and onto one another's necks and ears.

John digs his hands into the jean pockets over Benedict's arse, and he feels a sharp inhale against his collarbones in reply. Benedict becomes a bit more aggressive, then (not unlike how Sherlock might act, John thinks, and the thought stirs another moan from him), gripping John's wrists and pinning John's hands above his head. John gasps again and allows himself to slip away, strength and resistance giving way to submission as he keens and permits the taller man to do as he wishes to John's neck and nipples, head bent down, hair tickling John's skin, tongue warm and slippery on the doctor.

And yes, _yes, _this is what John has always wanted, always craved: impossibly close, improbably intimate physical attention and affection from Sherlock Holmes. –No, wait. From… Benedict Cumberbatch?

John's mind has to slowly catch up with itself even after he hears his own name sighed against his stomach, because John nearly forgotten, through the alcohol and the heat of the moment, that he isn't with who he thinks, despite the sound of the man's voice and the feel and look of his body.

He tries to differentiate, to purposely catalog the differences, but there are none. Benedict is acting as Sherlock in this moment. John is sure Ben wouldn't be mouthing the front of _Martin's _jeans and wouldn't unzip _Martin's _fly, and yet here he is, with someone who _looks _and _sounds _a lot like Martin but _isn't _Martin, and yet he's indulging all the same, acting unlike himself, and it's a bit of a mystery and a blissful wonder to John, and part of him – a very small, opposite-of-insecure part – thinks vaguely that, perhaps, Ben has always liked the idea of John and is doing this for John, because of John, and no other reasons.

And then there is the even smaller part of John that wonders, again, insecurely, is Ben is only doing this because he is just trying to be kind by pretending to be Sherlock for John's sake.

It's all so very backwards and twisted, and John wonders if it also isn't a little insane, but he could care less as his mind goes white-blank – like unused computer paper, like an empty Word document, like an unwritten blog page – with pleasure, because suddenly he's to the point where Ben has released his hands, and John's fingers are tangled in Ben's (oddly soft, but slightly sweaty) dark, wavy hair, and the actor's mouth is on him, tongue teasing.

John has never quite felt like this before, if he were to be honest. He's has sex, of course – what middle-aged man hasn't? – but not quite like this. Never with another man, and never under drunken circumstances (er, well. Maybe once John was a little buzzed and went home with a girl, but he hardly remembers _that_).

In a whoosh of bliss, it's over, and John is left panting (Sherlock's name on his tongue, and if he says it aloud, Benedict doesn't react), his heart trying not to trip over itself while he attempts to clear the buzzing heat on his face and ears. Benedict is hovering over him again, bending down for a slow kiss, and John gives him one. He can faintly taste sex on Ben's tongue, and it's a lot heady and a little odd, but not bad. And then Benedict is grinding his half-clothes hips into John's, and John groans throatily, barely able to hear Benedict's own moans over his, and with rock after rock, Ben's given his own ending to match John's.

They lay breathless and partially entwined on Ben's bed for a while, trying to calm their bodies down from the orgasmic high. John closes his eyes and feels drugged. And it's a bit true; mixing alcohol with the chemicals triggered in one's mind during and after sex can do that. He feels lazy, too, and a bit dirty, and terribly confused to boot.

They don't say anything about it, oddly. John drifts away for a while in what he thinks might be sleep, and in the morning, the pair take turns using the shower and readying themselves for the day.

XXX

Amanda calls before they go on set. John nibbles his lip and feels panic race through him. What if she questions how often John has been staying over at his co-star's flat for the past month? What if she suspects him of "cheating" on her? He feels a pang of sickening guilt in his stomach when he imagines that he could soil a perfectly good relationship between Martin and Amanda with what he did last night.

He decides to answer the call on Martin's phone before it goes to voicemail. "Hullo?" he says into it, seemingly casually.

"Not too hangover, I hope, Martin?" she jokes, and John mentally sighs in relief. She sounds perfectly normal. "Anyway, hon, I called to see if you would like to being Ben over tonight for dinner. I thought it would make your favorite! How does that sound?"

And then the nerves return (with a vengeance, John might add), because this could be some sort of confrontation. …Or this is Amanda being polite and thoughtful, acting on Martin's and Benedict's usual friendship and recent growth in it (as it would seem to her, John thinks). He wish he has Sherlock's deduction skills; that way, he would know which it is, and that could help him react properly.

"Oh! That sounds great, love. Great idea. Ben will love to!" he says with a laugh, and he hopes it isn't as awkward as it feels. (It isn't. It sounds like one of his usual manly giggles, and Amanda doesn't notice.)

"Fantastic! I'll tell the kids. They'll love to have him for a visit. I'll see you tonight!" and she hangs up, sounding chipper.

John exhales. Good, good; problem evaded. John's only regret is that he made a problem in the first place. But if he's smart, he won't let it get in the way of anything important.

"Martin, we need you on set!" calls a voice, and John turns automatically to give his reply. He's getting accustomed to answering to 'Martin' while filming. It's his trick of association: while in public, act as Martin. While on set, act like himself, but with lines. It's backwards for an actor, to be onset while shooting and not oneself otherwise, but John has taken to it as easily as any person can, and he calls that progress. (He only hopes Martin is as method as that, and isn't having any difficulty being John. He wonders if Martin has anyone like Benedict, someone who knows the truth and is willing to help. He prays so.)

While filming, Benedict is as professional as ever, John takes note. Ben says his lines properly, doesn't skip a beat, and cracks his usual jokes. He speaks to John fluidly, as though nothing has put a hitch in their friendship or co-star relationship, what it's become. He doesn't stare any longer than usual, and he doesn't mention anything that could refer to the previous night.

And while John might be almost a little annoyed by this, he's glad of it all the same, because it gives him the courage he needs to act the same way.

XXX

Dinner is, in fact, sensational.

Benedict chats with Martin's children and tells jokes and flirts with Amanda in that playful, just-messing-with-my-mate's-wife-to-flatter-her way. He keeps his gaze trained on almost everyone except John, and John wonders if there's any guilt there. He isn't Martin, they both know, but to Ben, this must be difficult anyway (in the way it's difficult for John); after all, these people _think _John is Martin, and that fact alone makes things feel as wrong as they do.

But John can't find it in himself to beat himself up for having sex with Benedict. It was a private moment for them, something exclusive, something unique (what actor is ever given the chance to make love to a fictional character, despite both being real in their own ways?). And John, admittedly, treasures it. It was everything he could have ever hoped for (even if his original hopes were meant for Sherlock. Details).

Once the meal and post-dinner coffee is served and over with, the children in bed, Amanda gets the two men talking about what she can expect of series three of Sherlock, and as an off-hand remark, she asks with a laugh, "Will Watson and Holmes finally be getting married?"

And Benedict laughs, but John freezes for a moment in a mixture of painful grief and throbbing guilt before easing into a breathy laugh. Ben answers for her, his head shaking. "No, Amanda, of course not. Don't you know the books?"

"Of course I do," she smiles, "But there _are _so many gay jokes made about them on the show, you know, by nearly every other character. I find it charming, so I wondered if there isn't more to it."

"There isn't," John says swiftly, and the pain in him won't ease. He aches, suddenly, to simply return back to his world and experience it for himself, to have _his _Sherlock back, and _his _friends back. It's almost torture, hearing this woman practically gush and joke over John's _life. _And he wishes – oh, does he _wish – _that what they are filming has truth to it, because it's all he can do not to mourn the loss of Sherlock all over again as she talks about the pair of them this way.

"Well, you're right. You would know, after all. But I do find it funny, Martin, that even you think it's a sort of love story. Maybe not romantic, but they do _love _each other, in their own way, like you've said," Amanda relays with a slight sigh, her eyes dreamy (tired) and her chin resting on her hand. She yawns. "Ah, well. I think it's time for Ben to go home and us to go to bed. Right, dear?"

John stiffly nods his head. "Y-yeah, I'm beat." He stands, stretches his arms exaggeratedly, and turns to Benedict, whom is also standing. They shake hands, hug briefly, and Ben gathers up his jacket and umbrella (it's drizzling again; no surprise there. This is England, after all) and heads out the door with a quick, friendly kiss to Amanda's cheek.

"You're been the best all night, Amanda." He smiles and looks over at John. "And I'll see you later, John."

John, at first, doesn't catch the slip-up, because it is his real name, after all. He slips his mind, on occasion, that he needs to pretend to be Martin a majority of the time. But Amanda catches it straight away. She laughs. "Oh, Ben. It really _has_ been a long day if you're calling Martin 'John' again! And it doesn't help we were just talking about him. So you go home and rest, alright? If you don't, the next thing you know, you'll think you're Sherlock!" and she laughs again.

"Right, right," Benedict says, and only John catches the odd expression on Ben's face as he says so. "Goodnight, then." And the door's closing, Amanda is tugging John off to their bedroom, and the lights in the house are slowly being shut off one by one.

John takes a full hour and a half that night before finally changing scene, jumping from dreams of a hospital to being at breakfast the following morning.


	6. Supposedly

Chapter 6: Supposedly

* * *

><p>He slumps off the armchair and manages to sit on the floor. His back is exposed as his shirt catches onto the chair. He feels a gentle breeze of the cold in his apartment, but he doesn't move. He's surrounded by nothing, and yet the living room has everything for his leisure – he feels empty by it all. It holds no sentimental value or significant meaning anymore. How? It slowly occurs to Benedict, that he cannot remember his past years as a teenager or when he graduated university. The more he tries, the more his mind becomes blank and he's filled with more emptiness. It feels like his whole memory has been wiped and the only thing he <em>can<em> remember is John appearing and him, having a feeling – no, wait, he knows a Martin Freeman, and he knows very well his friend plays John.

Nothing seems to add up anymore. He loves being with John, but as the days turn into weeks (and so far, it's been a month and a half already), Benedict feels like he's losing himself completely. His body aimlessly moves on it's own – he can't stop himself from kissing John when they're alone together. He feels guilty. John says it's what he wants, but what about himself? He's only thinking about John and never about how he _feels _about it. Oh, yes, it feels good and makes him want to take control over the doctor, but he also wants to stop. 'His body moving on it's own accord' is suddenly an understatement.

He wants John to feel less lonely and like he's needed. Of course, John Watson is _needed_ by one Benedict Cumberbatch – but needs John to continue to fulfill his role as Martin.

After _that _night, the pair didn't talk about it, and it was for the best. What happens in the bedroom, _stays_ in the bedroom. Benedict collected that small moment in his pocket full of memories – well, the memories that he'll maybe forget, if he doesn't figure what's going on with himself.

However, the night after Benedict had dinner with John and the Freeman family, he couldn't get his thoughts away from the doctor. The temptation to brush his lips against John's ear or graze his fingers upon John's under the table, strained the actor. He fights himself not to do anything stupid or to ruin John's relationship with Amanda. Of course, John is playing as Martin – which means he's _not _Martin, and doesn't have a real relationship with her because he _is _John Watson, but the point remains.

That slip-up was horrifying. How could he have managed that? And Amanda was quick to catch it and she laughed at it. At least, she didn't think it was strange and only mentioned how they had a long day.

_"The next thing you know, you'll think you're Sherlock!"_

He hears her voice ring in his head. _I refuse to believe it! I am not turning into Sherlock! No! No! _Whenever he's around John, he can't help but think he _is _Sherlock in a way. He's been fighting with John and himself about that matter. Benedict is his own person, yes. Or is he? What if this _is_ all a dream, like they discussed earlier? And the actor is actually something John made up in his mind, to build up a false relationship, one he didn't have with the detective?

_What if? _Benedict releases a sigh and stares at the window, as if he's waiting for someone.

And in fact, he is.

How long has it been since he messaged John?

"Ben?" Someone's voice bellows across the open corridor and the actor hears footsteps. "Where are you? Are you okay?" _John_. The doctor strolls into the living room, sighting his friend on the floor. "What's wrong, Ben?"

"I think I'm going crazy." He answers simply.

How did he get into his home? Did he even hand John a spare key? Benedict glances at John, who sits besides him, ignoring the armchair and the couch.

"Sorry, did I disturb you?" Benedict questions.

"I got worried when you sent me that text." Drawing closer to the actor, he ignores Benedict's apology and in fact, the actor always seems to say it with so much meaning. Something that Sherlock hardly says to his companion.

Filming the second episode was a success and it was now they're onto episode three, the final one for this series. Everyone is taking a weekend off, and Amanda wants to take her and John on a romantic trip to the seaside (her mother insists to look after the children of course). The doctor happily agrees. He thinks he can get to know Amanda more, and he does enjoy her company when they're at home, so it wouldn't hurt to spend one day with her, would it?

He's yet to tell Benedict, though. How would he feel not seeing the doctor for two days? That wouldn't be so hard. Right?

John's packing his things when he receives a text message from his co-worker and runs off, informing his wife that he'll be back by the end of the day. He's used to it – running off in a hurry, to attend to Sherlock's needs and random requests. So it didn't seem at all strange to run to Benedict's side instead. Amanda doesn't even think of it being out of character of her husband and bid her darling goodbye.

"What text?" He answers, with a slight pout.

"You said to come immediately." A frown tugs at his lips. "Why don't you rest in your room, Ben?" He notices the actor is paler than usual, as if he's about to pass out any second. This worries John even more, as he pulls at Benedict's elbow. "Come on." He urges.

"Don't want to."

"Ben. Come on, lad. You look tired."

"I'm _not_ tired."

"_Benedict_."

"Alright!" He stands, almost knocking John off his feet. "You're not my mother!" he murmurs, pacing to his bedroom. John follows to make sure his friend tucks himself into bed, but as soon as the actor reaches his bedroom, he halts by the doorframe.

"Ben?" John asks.

"What if this is a dream, John?" Benedict faces the other, his face full of mixed emotions: Hurt. Disbelief. Rage. Remorse. He pulls a thinking face, something so familiar and like Sherlock. He paces between the small space between John and the doorframe. It looks like he doesn't want to go to bed yet.

"Ben, I really think you should lay down for a moment! This isn't a dream! We both agreed!"

"Ah!" He points at the doctor. "But I didn't! You see, John, I'm not even real! We both believed that you were the fake one – but I think it was always me! _Me_, John!" He throws both of his arms in the air and he breathes in slowly, when the other stares at him like a mad man. "And look, see, you think I've gone crazy!"

"Well, you did say you were." His voice sounds flat and uninterested. Or is he unamused by this friend's statement?

The actor runs a hand through his hair. "And I am! My movements, my speech: everything is beginning to sound like _him_!" (Funny how they hardly mentioned the detective's name between the two unless they were filming together.) "I'm fake, John! I was never real! I think the only time I feel like I'm truly and honestly alive is when I'm with you!"

John shifts his weight to the side, cocking a brow. "Ben, we're thinking too deep into this. You need some rest."

"Bu-but I don't..." He's silenced when the doctor gives him a quick kiss. He moans, opening his mouth to deepen the kiss but John pulls away. Benedict tries not to whimper over the loss.

"Now will you get into bed?" John tries again.

"Only if you join me," Benedict unintentionally says.

John's sighs and gives the actor a smile. "Ben, should we really do this? I have to get back to Amanda! I need to finish packing for the weekend!" Oddly, it sounds so strange on his tongue to be saying that.

In some way, Amanda is going to spend a whole weekend with John Watson. Not even her husband, and oh gosh – what if she attempts to do something in the bedroom with him? He wouldn't know how to make her feel good because it was Martin who knew his wife, not him.

Benedict follows John's gaze and smiles. "At least spend some time with me, before you go." His heart races, so he leans against the doorframe to keep himself steady. "I feel like I'll never see you again..." He peers down, as his vision blur with tears. "Please..." He sounds even more hurt than ever before. And it's heartbreaking to see him like that.

John wants to hold the actor. He decides to complete this task, giving the other a warm embrace. Benedict feels cold and fragile, and John feels the tears prickle through his shirt as the actor continues to cry.

In all honestly, if this is a dream and if Benedict is fake, he wants to spend his last moments with the doctor. He wants to hold him like Sherlock would. He wants to hold him and feel loved because that is something John has less experience in. He knows John like the back of his hand. He wants to give him something, something that a very well known detective would hardly do, without deducing the matter.

He feels so alive and that it may sound to be over the top, but it's true. Love or not, Benedict knows this is right. He knows his world will eventually stop turning when John goes back, and somehow, he's accepted that.

"Ben..." John whispers. His hand cups the actor's face, as he gives him another kiss on the lips. He draws away but not too far, only far enough for their foreheads to be touching, Ben bending down against him. "I'm not going to disappear. You'll see me again after the weekend."

"And what if I don't? What if you go back home? I have a weird feeling about this, John…"

"I promise you, I won't. You said so yourself," and he kisses him on the forehead. "_You_ promisedme that you'll take me back home. Remember?" And Benedict smiles warmly as they look into each other's eyes. Their lips find their way and they're suddenly on Benedict's bed again.

XXX

Soft moans flit about the room, names groaned out with pleasure and kisses filled with unbroken promises.

Benedict takes charge so easily because John lets him. He plants kisses on John's body and his hands wander down to discard the doctor's jeans. At first, they feel shy because this is only the second time and it isn't at night, both of them full of drinks, so they are fully aware of what's going on. And it's the late afternoon, the curtains are drawn open from the morning and the light hovers lightly upon their skin. Shadows cast on their faces and bodies, and John takes a moment to admire Benedict's tall and lean body for the first time. His jaw drops.

Would Sherlock look like this?

They stare at one another, pleading to get confirmation to carry on, and John nods his head. Benedict continues. They take the rest of each other's clothing and are soon naked in one's presence. Benedict takes his time in teasing the doctor, by upholding him with more kisses all over his body. John feels frustrated at the actor. A moan escapes his throat, snapping his head onto the pillow. His eyes shut; rather than seeing for himself, he feels Benedict continue to make him feel... oh, _so_ _good_. The taller man palms the doctor and he quivers at the touch, moaning again. He straddles John with a lustful smirk.

Benedict uses his free hand to grasp John's wrists together, above his head, while his other fondles him. He quickens his pace and John whimpers louder. The actor slowly stops, spying John becoming breathless with every touch. His hands relocate to John's waist and the doctor peels his eyes open and sees Benedict close his mouth over his. Their tongues mix together, hot and wet. Their kiss deepens and slows, as Benedict extracts and John gives him an inquisitive look.

John is lost for words again when he sees his friend swallow two fingers into his mouth. He absently licks his lips. Benedict grins back, urging John to open up for him. The doctor doesn't hesitant to move and does so. He withdraw his fingers from his mouth and proceeds.

John pants and the other slows down, wanting to make the experience enjoyable, rather than painful. He sees John arch his back, displaying a full view of the doctor's throat and Benedict laps his tongue against his neck, as he resumes his action.

Their bodies are hot and sweaty and Benedict feels very warm, ignoring the disappointing weather London is showing. It feels like summer already. They grunt against each other when Benedict moves into John. They whimper each other's names, as their lips touch again. They lose their surroundings with groans and moans. Benedict carries on, until John finally breathes something against Benedict's ear.

"Please..." He urges.

And the actor swallows the knot in his throat, glimpsing at the doctor. "Okay..." He smiles. How adorable he looks in the poorly lit room by the now clouded skies. Their eyes is already adjusted to the light in the room and soon, the room will be dark and shrouded by their guilty pleasures.

Suddenly, Ben realizes, it doesn't matter if Martin were never to return, because Benedict loves John's company and he feels his heart is about to burst any moment because of his unspoken feelings. He will never love Martin the way he does John. _Love_? How ridiculous that sounds. However, it feels so new and nice to taste in his mouth when he overlaps John's own.

And when he drives into the doctor, he feels his heart thump in his ears and John wails the actor's name. _Funny_, he could have sworn he said the detective's name instead. He mentally shakes his head at his own daft behaviour from earlier and moves faster. He feels John's hands claw at his back at the motion and he tries to match his movements with Benedict's. It blissfully works and the pair are close to the edge and then… it's all over.

Benedict joins John at his side, their fingers laced together. There's sudden meaning in his bedroom, something unlike his living room or the kitchen, or any other room for that matter. He eyes John, who looks like he has passed out, but he does not wake up. Not yet. His mind and heart calms down and he knows John is the only meaning to this world; he's what makes this place feel special. He feels like maybe he should feel some regret, but doesn't; he's relaxed about the outcome.

"John..." He mutters, stroking the doctor's cheek.

"Yes?" Blinking several times at the other.

"You need to go back home. To Martin's." He makes it harder for them to let go, but Amanda will notice. She'll find out sooner or later if they're not careful.

John sighs, taking hold of the actor's hand. He pecks Benedict's fingers. "I'm going on a seaside trip with Amanda for the weekend." He sees the actor sigh. They catch each other's gaze. "I'll come back. I promise."

"If you do, you'll never go back to Sherlock." He says with a sad smile. John is baffled by his remark and frowns. "I want you to go back to Baker Street."

"What are you saying?" John's eyebrows knit together.

"Something that we both have to admit someday." Benedict's smile widens, but his eyes are warm at the presence of John. "You know if we continue doing this, you won't admit your feelings for _him_. You'll stay in this dream forever." John shakes his head. "I'm not real." His voice breaks. "You need to go back into _your_ world. I think you're here because you can't get 'round to Sherlock being either dead or alive. You made me up, so you can feel loved and wanted by someone. And I just happen to look like _him_ because the someone you truly want isn't around."

John feels lost and he wants to throw himself off the bed and put his clothes back on, but he doesn't. The look in Benedict's eyes tells him to stay a bit longer, despite what was exchanged between them just now.

He feels his own tears coming through. Part of him is furious at Benedict. He's mad at the fact that Benedict can't let go of the idea of everything being a dream. Because how can that be true? This feels too real to be a dream. Everything around him is solid. It's London. (Not _his _London, however, a small voice recognizes.) Every moment spent without everyone else, does feel surreal, but it does not change the fact that it couldn't be a dream.

Didn't Benedict deny this theory before?

"I don't understand what you're saying," he lies to Benedict; but more importantly, lies to himself. "Why can't you let this whole bloody thing go, Ben?"

"I'm telling you the truth." He places a kiss on John's forehead.

John chuckles softly. "It's like you're my subconscious or something."

"Hilarious, right?"

They share another kiss again, knowing time is running out for John. He has to be back home soon or his – Martin's – wife will go nuts, and possibly get suspicious. They take a moment to collect their thoughts and the like, and John rolls onto his side and rests his head against the other man's chest. Benedict responds with an embrace.

XXX

Minutes later, John gets ready to go home and Benedict changes clothes alongside the doctor. Dread in their legs, they manage to get to the door, finally, and the pair look deeply at one another. Benedict feels breathless and grins at the doctor, as if this will be the last time he'll see him. They say nothing, and as the silence drags on, John feels he can't get close enough to open the door. Their feelings are holding each other back.

"Come on, don't worry; I'll be back! We have to finish filming, anyway," John breaks the tension with a heart-filled chuckle. Benedict smiles. "You promised, remember?" And he just needs to say that again, to make it clear.

"Please take care of yourself." Benedict pulls his friend into a hug. John wraps his arms around the other's neck. "Please, John." It sounds like a request, rather than a simple 'goodbye,' and John is weary about it. He ignores the throb in his chest when they pull away.

"I will, Ben." He opens the front door. The street lamps are starting to turn on as he walks further into the street. He sights a taxi and hails it over. "Goodbye!" He looks at Benedict one more time before he opens the taxi door.

The actor is close to tears but he doesn't let John see, so he waves happily at the doctor. John waves back and goes into the car. He doesn't remember getting out of the car and into his own home. He finds himself already packing the last item of clothing into his suitcase, and Amanda pecks the man's cheek for his efforts.

XXX

When John heads to bed, he thinks about Benedict. He thinks everything about him: the comparison between the actor and the detective, the first argument they shared on the first day, a lot like how John shouts abuse at Sherlock. He smiles at their memories and his heart sinks when he recalls Benedict saying he isn't real. He thinks Benedict is thinking too deep about the whole body-swapping situation, and he only hopes that it _is_ some ridiculous Doctor Who idea going on.

He wants to go home to the real Baker street, but he doesn't want to leave Benedict behind. He's terrified.

"John, are you alright there?" He feels his wife wrap her arms around her supposed husband's chest.

He kisses her hand gently. "Can't sleep." He replies.

"Just close your eyes and get some rest. We got a long trip to the seaside." He remembers her saying and he does shut his eyes.

He feels the comfort being in one's arms, but he prefers to be in Benedict's; or, rather, Sherlock's. John imagines Benedict's cheerful smile and thinks back to Sherlock. He muses on how the detective would react. After all, the scenes – the episodes – that they have filmed in the past month and a half clearly show that Sherlock is alive.

And the amusing thought John has is: somewhere deep down in Sherlock, there's a cheeky, childish Benedict, wanting to embrace John or crack a joke and in some way, his sly affections – the words in the script, the true meaning that only an actor can interpret – is something Benedict portrayed to prove his feelings for John, the way he made himself look at John, the way he observed the doctor.

Who knows? Benedict and Sherlock could be the same person. Who else would believe him if the other were in the same situation?


	7. Down By The Sea

**Hello everyone!**

****I was going to upload this chapter up the other day but something was going on with the upload thingy, so I wasn't able to. In addition, **I'm sad to say that Ari (Dreaming-Of-A-Nightmare) and I have almost reached the end of this fic.**

**Thank you so very much for the splendid reviews and your lovely and kind words. We seriously appreciate your support and interest. Happy tears everywhere. Let us love you all.**

**Thank you for reading and hope you enjoy this next chapter! xx**

* * *

><p>Chapter 7: Down By The Sea<p>

* * *

><p>"Isn't this lovely, Martin? I haven't been to the sea in a long while!" Amanda says cheerfully as she slips her sunglasses over her eyes and sheds her cardigan to walk down to the beach. She lays out her towel in an empty space and glances back at John a few times before dipping her toes in the shallowest waves. The water is chilly, John knows, but she doesn't seem to mind. She calls out to him, asks him to join her.<p>

And he does.

They spend most of the day eating ice cream and hanging by the seaside, the scent of fish and seaweed and saltwater in the air. John feels like his senses are dulled, like the sun isn't as bright as Amanda claims it to be, like the scents aren't as strong as he knows they should be, and the colors aren't as bright. The sky is grey, the waves dimly blue, the sand beige. He sighs a little, but Amanda keeps him distracted with conversation.

Whenever John should be sleeping, he instead has flashes of St. Bart's, of people and noise and the color white and vague smells. But then he's part of another day again, and it's off-putting and bizarre.

Amanda is sweet with him, but John feels like he doesn't deserve it. She's only this way because she thinks he's Martin, and he's debating on whether or not he should ever tell her the truth, and if she would even believe him. He doubts it, and immediately drops the thought once he remembers how fortunate he was for Benedict to believe him in the first place. (He tries not to revisit the thought of Ben and Sherlock being one and the same. His late-night thinking haunts him during the day.)

On the trip back, Amanda is driving and humming along with a song on the radio. John sits idly in the passenger seat, guiltily pleased that Amanda hadn't propositioned him for sex the entire time. She was warm and affectionate, yes, but she didn't seem interested in engaging in sex, and for that, John is grateful (although it does make him wonder: does this mean Martin and Amanda are currently having a slow relationship, sexually speaking?).

"Did you have fun this weekend?" Amanda asks in the near-silence of the car. Her tone sounds odd. She was humming one minute, and now, strangely, she seems a bit distraught. "I did, but you didn't try to coax me into sex like you normally would, even playfully, and I don't know, I wondered if there were something bothering you."

"Huh? No, no. I'm fine, Amanda," John murmurs cautiously. He eyes her sideways, his gaze drawn back to the window. "I'm just tired, now. That's all. We did have a lot of fun this weekend; restaurants, the sea, ice cream, movies at the hotel. It was nice."

"Are you thinking about how you have to go back to work tomorrow, then?" she poses, and there is it again, that tone that doesn't sound right. "Don't tell me you're tired of being John Watson now that you're nearly finished with this season."

It doesn't sound like a joke, despite the way she words it. She has a smile on her face, but her tone lacked one. And that alone is enough to stiffen John with alarm. "N-no, I'm not tired of being John. I… I like being John," he tells her, but his voice drops off to a whisper near the end. Something doesn't feel right. Something feels sick and wrong and God, almost _painful. _Thick and drowsy, but _painful, _intensely so, like a migraine splitting John in two with the sudden onslaught of a hurricane.

"Oh, that's good. Because Benedict seems to like you as John, too," Amanda says. Her voice is starting to crack, and her smile is tight. She glances over at John while she drives, and her speed soars upward, her foot crushing the pedal, and John rears back in fear, body recoiling into his seat.

"Amanda! Watch your speed!" And he isn't only saying this because of the police that could be on the road who will pull them over and give them a ticket; his fear is much more real than that. He senses danger. His entire body is beginning to thrum with sharp pain, the sort of pain that can either be adrenaline or muscle-ache from tension; he isn't sure which.

"No, Martin. I'm fairly certain I need it to keep your attention. You've been… someone else during this entire trip. Now that you've been fully alone with me, I've noticed that you've been hesitant and distant. The Martin I know loves me. He would never act that way. And the Martin I know has never spent so much time with his co-star before, with _any _co-star of his before. So tell me, are you really my Martin? Or are you someone else?"

"Who else would I be?" John half-shouts. "Amanda, please! Slow down the car!"

"A liar and a cheat, that's who!" Amanda answers with a shake, her fingers white from her grip on the steering wheel. "You've been sleeping with Benedict, haven't you? It took me this whole weekend to piece it together and test my theory. But I think I knew. You came home from his place the other day and your clothes were rumpled and you smelled different, like sweat and like _him. _So tell me, Martin, do you even care about me anymore? Or is it all about him and your stupid, ruddy television show?"

She's hurt and angry. She's driving far too fast. There's a curve over a tall hill approaching. The grass is too green, the sky too white, the road too light. Amanda is getting fuzzy in John's vision. John can hear bleeps. What is that? His (Martin's) mobile phone? Amanda's mobile phone? No, no… it sounds like something else, something more familiar.

His stomach drops. John braces himself as they near the safety guard around the edge of the curve.

Amanda disappears. The driver's seat is empty, and John is suddenly in the backseat, by himself. He blinks open his eyes.

He's flying through the air, gradually careening off the edge and soaring downward toward his fate.

John breathes in achingly slow, and his eyes widen impossibly far. He sees flickers in the landscape below him. He sees the sea sparkle in the distance.

(He pictures, for a fraction of a second, ginger-black haired Benedict, and shadowy, seafoam-eyed Sherlock, side by side, arms open toward John.)

And then, in a flash of electricity from a lightning storm John hadn't seen in the sky beforehand, John feels the impact of something (the ground? It can only be the ground, right?) and he wakes up.

He _wakes up._

XXX

Molly is there. And not the actress who plays Molly, not Louside Brealey, but _actually Molly. _She's smiling down at him, relief across her entire face, and he's in the hospital.

"Oh, thank _God,_" she says, voice as bubbly and nervous as ever. She stoops down and engulfs John in a tight hug. "I thought we were going to lose you!"

"Wh-what…?" John murmurs, and his voice is scratchy as if he hasn't used it in months. "Molly…?"

"You've been in a coma, John," comes Mycroft's voice, and he's standing somewhere else in the room. John struggles to position himself after Molly removes her warm body from his chest. John licks his lips, tongue and throat dry, and glances around with groggy eyes. Mycroft is near the door, umbrella being used like a cane as he waltzes in. "For approximately seven months."

"I… what?" John sputters. She shakes his head violently, his right hand coming up to brace his forehead against the lingering traces of a migraine. "No, no. That's impossible. I was… I was in London. Not this London, but another, and – and a man was there. Benedict was his name, I think. He looked like Sherlock. He played Sherlock on the telly. And I was – I Martin. I…"

Molly is looking at him with worry as tangible as a brick wall. "John, what are you talking about? You've… you've been here since the mugging, don't you remember? A man attacked you, and you fought back, and you wounded him with a gunshot, but he pulled a knife on you and stabbed you. You fell, and your head –" she glances between him and Mycroft. "Shouldn't he remember? Is it bad that he doesn't?"

Vaguely, _vaguely, _there is a hint of a memory in his jumbled mind somewhere about a mugging and a fight. He recalls being too depressed, too slow to react at one point, and that's how he failed to notice the knife before it was too late and it was lights out. And the next thing he remembers after that… was waking up in the hospital, briefly, and then suddenly being in Martin's place.

It dawns on him incredibly slowly. But once John understands, he looks to Mycroft, his jaw dropped, and the older Holmes brother looking at him sadly. "Yes, that's right, John. You must have been experiencing a comatose-induced dream. They say that patients who experience those are more likely to wake one day, even after months of being under, because their minds are so active. And they also say those sorts of dreams can feel like a lifetime, and nearly perfectly real."

"It was," John murmurs. He's on the brink of crying, he just knows it. He shudders out an exhale and shivers until goosebumps rise on his flesh. He looks at Molly, then Mycroft. His hand drops from his head. "I'm thirsty."

"I'll get you some water straight away!" Molly offers as she races off.

In her absence, John has to ask: "Why are you here, Mycroft? And why do I feel like my waking wasn't a simple come-to?"

"Because it wasn't. I was informed that you were going into cardiac arrest, and so I came immediately. They had to revive you with a defibrillator. Congratulations, Dr. Watson: you've been successfully brought back from the dead. Your heart stopped for an outstanding four minutes. It's a miracle you woke from your coma because of it."

John nods slowly, accepting this as much as he's able to in his current state. Then, "…But why would you care if –?"

"Because my brother would care," Mycroft answers immediately. "That's why. Now then," he says, peering behind him, out the door and into the corridor. "Miss Hooper has returned with your water. I'll leave you to rest. Try not to slip back into a coma, yes?" And he smiles a little in that smarmy way he does that is just shy of actually being charming.

"Here you are," Molly says. "They tried to keep you hydrated, but it's hard to do that with an IV, you know. So if you drink this, you should feel a lot better. Bet you have a headache."

"I do. Thanks, Molly," John murmurs as he looks away from Mycroft's retreating back, umbrella swung over his shoulder. He guzzles the glass until it's gone, and wipes his mouth. As he hands Molly the cup to set aside, he attempts to lighten the mood by asking, "So I missed New Year's, did I? Sorry about that. Bet you had a fantastic bash."

"It wasn't the same without you," she whispers. She sighs and tugs on her ponytail with both hands to tighten it. Looking up, she asks, "Do you need anything for the pain?"

"I'd rather not," John admits. "I want to stay awake for as long as possible."

She nods. "I don't blame you," she adds sheepishly. Molly looks anxious again as she begins fiddling with her hair. "And, um, John?"

"Yes?"

"I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry. I never could, before. But after what you've been through recently… and what you might encounter later… I just wanted you to know, alright? That I'm terribly sorry, and I didn't mean to hurt you, but it was to help you, in an odd way. Understand?" she says softly.

John feels his brows knit together. He lips his chapped lips again before speaking. "Um, no, I don't, but I guess I will soon enough?"

"Soon enough," she agrees quietly. She stands and pats his knee. "Rest up, John. If all goes well, you can be home in a couple short days." And she forces a smile, and on Molly, forces smiles look cold. John shudders as she treads so light that she's nearly tiptoeing out of the room.

Still perplexed, John settles down into his hospital bed and tries to recall his dream.

Somehow, he can't place a scrap of it anymore. It's all just… _transport._

XXX

On the morning of his third day since his waking, John is back in his own clothes (brought to him by a relieved Mrs. Hudson, someone who came and visited him first thing the second day, after she'd heard about his waking; they cried and hugged and she got him to get out of bed and walk around the hospital with her, him tugging an IV beside him, pumping him with vitamins to renew his body, his legs wobbly, and him in only his hospital gown). He's ready to leave, finally.

He checks out of the hospital. They've run test after test these past few days, and they've had John perform plenty of tasks for his motor skills and memory, and they have given him about a dozen phone numbers in case of emergency, like if he's feeling lightheaded or dizzy or is he faints or has too vivid of dreams, or even if he forgets things.

John thanks everyone, signs papers, and rides with Mrs. Hudson in a cab back to Baker street. John inhales the scent of London, drinks in the sights of everything familiar and solid and _real, _and for once, doesn't linger on the grief normally associated with all the things that remind John of Sherlock Holmes.

Mycroft sends him a text that pings on John's person as soon as he and Mrs. Hudson reach the front door to his flat.

_There's a gift waiting for you in your living room, John. Don't thank me for it, though. I'm only informing you that it's there. -MH_

Frowning in confusion that quickly melts into a smile of surprise, John texts back, _I'll be on the lookout for it, then. But if you didn't buy me a gift, who did? –JW_

_You'll see soon enough, _Mycroft sends back as John pauses on the stairs to his flat to read the message. And there is it again, that phrase, 'soon enough,' echoing in his head like a bell, because Molly had said the same thing.

Shrugging, John hollers down to Mrs. Hudson, "Would you like to have tea with me in an hour?"

"I'll put the kettle on!" is her consenting response. John smiles a little. For a man having just stirred from a coma a few days ago, he feels like he's just fallen back into his routine life. And that, he thinks, is the easiest and best thing such a person can do, the best choice they can have.

John slides his key into the lock and enters his flat. It feels quiet, a bit exaggeratedly so, and the air is different. He shrugs off his jacket and slips his keys into his pocket. Toes off his shoes, John thinks nothing of it as he passes first through the kitchen, glances at the seven months' worth of mail stacked on the table and counters. Then, casually, he turns and heads for the living room, curious about Mycroft's little hint, and also idly considering of opening it by a lit fire.

He doesn't get very far, however. He stops in front of his chair and stares blankly in front of him. There's a man seated in Sherlock's favorite armchair, and the fire is already on. The man slowly pans his gaze to meet the doctor's.

"It's good to see you alive and well, John," the man says with a quiet tone, his voice a deep rumble coming from the center of his chest.

John swallows thickly. "I should be saying the same about you." He feels his knees give out under him, and it's all he can do to catch himself on the back of his chair, leaning forward, knees on its back to keep him upright. "…_Sherlock._"


	8. Coming Home

Chapter 8: Coming Home

* * *

><p>John isn't sure what to do when he utters <em>his<em> name. He feels like he's seen this before or knew something like this was going to happen. However, he tucks the thought away and focuses on what is front of him. _Sherlock_. The man – consulting detective – everyone thought to be a fake and a liar. There it goes again, those words: _Fake_. _Liar_. As if alarm bells were singing at him, and John feels another headache approaching. He ignores it for now.

He doesn't know if he should smack the living daylights out of the other man or simply cry. He refuses to tear up at the man's presence, but he doesn't want to hit him, either. He breathes slowly and he knows – he _knows_ that Sherlock is possibly deducing the doctor right now and will predict what he's about to say next.

Sherlock just sits there, back facing toward him, and then the detective stands from the armchair and bores his eyes into him.

They stand there for minutes on end, and John swallows a knot in his throat, unsure what to say. He thinks Sherlock will simply laugh at him, but the taller male frowns slightly at his unspoken deduction. And for the first time, he looks confused. As if all the things Sherlock's prepared himself for John's reactions are suddenly backfiring on him.

He feels his heart throb, remembering a heartbroken feeling from a previous time, but John could be making it up. His shoulders drop when Sherlock opens his mouth.

"Jo-John..." He says and his quiet tone is distraught by a soft sob. A tear falls down his face.

Oh yes, John could have sworn he's seen Sherlock cry before, but Sherlock _never _cries. (Well, not in front of John, unless it's a trick, like getting a witness to talk.) Sherlock looks as dumbfounded as John does and he wipes his tear away and sniffs. His face tightens for a moment.

"I sort of imagined myself to be the one crying..." John admits, as he absently smiles.

"Human emotions are so unnecessary," the other scoffs back. He throws his hands behind his back. "I thought this outcome would be slightly different. You haven't flinched when I stood up. Your body posture is relaxed, as if you've seen this coming. But you can't, unless you really did have hope that I was alive! And of course, you'd believe me to be still alive." And how John misses Sherlock's mouthful of words and way of speaking. "You haven't seen me in years, and here you are, composed as ever. You're a solider. You can't show any feelings because that would get you killed, but – oh, John – I can detect them so well! You're confused. You don't know what to say or do, because you bite on your bottom lip to refrain yourself from saying something that I might consider 'stupid' or 'dull'. You won't cry. You're too strong for that. However, your fist are clenched, which indicates you want to hit me for lying to you." There's a small bounce in his step as he approaches the doctor. "You're angry and hurt that I lied to you. But there's something else in your gaze, as you peer at me..." He stops for a moment and he stares deeply into John's eyes. Sherlock nods slowly, as if he's found the answer, and backs away.

And before John even notices he's doing it, he smacks Sherlock across the face.

Sherlock laughs for a second as he looks back at the doctor. "I see you that you haven't lost your strength when you were in a coma." He discards the fact that John has hit him and he's not surprised at all. He's prepared for the next thing that will come spiting out of John's mouth.

"You're a bloody idiot! I _thought_ you were dead!" John's words come pouring out like vomit and he can't stop himself. He feels angry and hurt, exactly what Sherlock has deduced. "You worried me! You worried Mrs Hudson, Lestrade, Molly and Mycroft, and I can care less about your creepy brother right now! Everyone thought you _died_!" And that was it. John feels like he's been struck with new information, like the trains just finally begun moving after being delayed. Molly _knew_. Mycroft would have eventually figured it out. They both knew Sherlock was waiting for John to come back home. That's right; that was reason why Molly said sorry; she was apologizing for she causing him so much hurt. She _must_ have known. _Wait _– this feels like déjà vu again. John clenches his jaw in response. "Did you even think to visit me while I was in hospital, Sherlock?" he hisses.

The detective says nothing and he gives John more time to express his current emotions. There's a glimmer in his eyes that shows his prediction about John was correct. It makes John even more annoyed.

"You're unbelievable, Sherlock! Bloody seven months, Sherlock! I've been in a coma for that long! You've been dead for longer – well, you're not dead! You're alive!" He runs a heavy hand through his hair. He feels tears making their way and he swallows thickly again, preventing himself from doing so. "Oh my gosh, I thought you were dead. But I didn't want you to be dead." He lowers his voice. "I didn't want you to be dead," he repeats again, sounding broken by all of this. "And now, here you are... you fucking idiot." He brings his arm up to brush the tears away.

Then it starts. The waterworks. John can't stop crying. As long as he can remember since Sherlock's 'death,' he's been making up scenarios in his mind of how it would turn out. How this scene would be like, when one day he'll come back home and he'll see Sherlock, in his usual chair, telling the doctor about a new case. He feels like he can't take it. His cries are muffled from his arm because he doesn't want to look at _him_. He's been fighting so long, everyday, pretending he was alright about everything, when really, he wasn't.

How could he carry on believing Sherlock would be alive after those damn two (now three, after the coma) years?

He didn't want to lose hope. He wanted to move on. But he just… _couldn't._

And now that Sherlock's actually here – alive, breathing the same air as him. In _his_ London – back home. _Their _home. He wants to think his mind is playing tricks with him, and no one would blame him for such heartache. He missed Sherlock. He knows that. And now, there was something else, beating in his mind. Those hidden emotions and mixed feelings – the questions and the arguments he's had with himself – he has to face it now. He _has _to tell Sherlock how he feels.

John feels a warm presence – no, a warm feeling from deep down. It feels like comfort, full of love and trust. He can't explain what it truly is. It's just a feeling. Like he knew he was going to be okay after this. He feels like he's been reminded of the reason he's awoken.

Oh _yeah _– how did he wake up again? He had a heart attack, but there is something. Something that must have happened in his dreams. It's familiar and yet so new. He can't put his finger on it. He can't remember. He wants to remember, and nothing in his mind wants to lift his spirits now.

John now feels someone tug his arm, dropping their weight onto it. He shifts his view upwards to see Sherlock with a grimacing facial expression. He blinks his tears away and realizes he's been crying for the past ten minutes in silence. It must have been tiring for Sherlock to hear. He feels Sherlock's hand on his arm, and after bringing it down, he doesn't let go. Their eyes lock and John inhales deeply.

"I did it to save you." He states, but John doesn't believe him. "He was going to kill you, John. Along with Mrs Hudson and Lestrade and _everyone_." Sherlock tries again, "If I didn't die, you would."

"You're still an idiot, Sherlock," John murmurs, and Sherlock smiles. He then coughs, wanting to change the subject. He isn't prepared to hear how Sherlock escaped death. "You were keeping tabs on me, I assume?"

"Well, _someone_ had to tell me if you died or not."

John guesses it was Mycroft that had been speaking with Sherlock. So he didn't just figure it out; Mycroft knew, too. Is there anyone who _didn't _know? John feels as though he's been left out of something grandly important.

"And what if I did die?" he sniffs.

"You wouldn't, John." Sherlock shakes his head.

"But what _if _I did?" John tried again. He knows Sherlock won't answer properly, and maybe the detective is in denial. Why is he even questioning him? He isn't so sure. Perhaps it's leverage, a means of knowing if Sherlock does indeed care. But of course he does, to an extent, if what he said is true (and it probably is); Sherlock cares that his friendship with his companion still stands in place.

Sherlock eyes turn cold at the repeated question, and his grip on John's arm tightens. "I knew you wouldn't."

The doctor sighs and forces himself to move away. "Unbelievable again," he says, sitting down on the couch.

And the other male in the room follows his movements with pondering eyes. "About what? _Me_?" John stares at the window. "John, what did you expect me to do? You know I am incapable of expressing emotions, and you know it's gets in the way of my work! What do you want me to do, now, then? Throw a welcome home party?" His words taste like venom. He's lost it. Sherlock thought he knew how John would act and he manages to do that, but John always finds a way to surprise him from the predictable. He's unsure why he feels hurt towards this. His chest feels tight from the distance between him and John, as if the further apart the pair is, the harder it is to breathe.

"You wouldn't answer my bloody question _or_ the previous one!" John stands again. He doesn't feel like sitting down anymore. "You refuse to understand how I feel!"

"Of course I _understand_, John!" He takes a couple of steps toward the doctor. "I couldn't visit you for death purposes! I know you'd turn out fine! You're too strong, and if I said that you were to die or if I lost every hope or reason, that you would – then I'm not being a good companion! That would state that I don't have much hope for you being awake, as you were for me, after I supposedly 'died'." Sherlock doesn't take a breather and carries on, "I understand that you're mad at me! Who wouldn't you be? You're hurt by not only the fact that I'm suddenly alive but also the fact that you've woken up from a coma, baffled by my being here! You're confused by reality!" John folds his arms across his chest. "No..." Sherlock stops. "Like I said before, there is something else, John. You're angry about something else."

"So why don't you just say it?"

Sherlock stays quiet for a moment; thinking to himself, perhaps. "It's not my place to speak it out loud." John bites the inside of his cheek. Sherlock adds, "And I rather not hear it now!" He moves away, to the armchair or the kitchen, and John forces himself to move as well. John moves with purpose, closing the gap between then. He viciously pulls the detective around and smacks his lips upon the other.

They freeze for a second and John's brings himself closer, deepening the kiss. _How the hell did this happen?_ Sherlock responds to the touch, his hands finding John's waist. John feels like this has happened before. The movements are familiar; however, Sherlock's response is hesitant.

The pair move away and Sherlock takes a few more steps away from John. He looks flushed and perplexed. His legs bump into the armchair and he's eyes never tears away from the doctor.

"Sherlock..." John says.

"_Why_ did you do that?" He asks, to what sounds like hatred or disgust to John. The doctor tries not to whince at this. "You..." Sherlock claps his fingers onto his mouth, contemplating if he enjoyed that or not.

John sees the rejection in Sherlock's eyes and it's painful. He feels it coming. He knows that Sherlock is going to push him away or brush the matter aside and pretend nothing happened. Once again, it feels like déjà vu. His pulse races and he coughs awkwardly, looking anywhere that isn't Sherlock.

The living room surprisingly looks the same from when John left it seven months ago, and it's as if Sherlock never left. In all honestly, John refused to take out the detective's things because he couldn't bring himself to do it, so he merely left it aside.

He hears the detective approaching and what he thinks will be Sherlock's rejection turns out to be another kiss. He moans into Sherlock's open mouth, pleasantly surprised. He snaps his eyes shut at the contact. Their hands cup each other's faces, getting a better angle to deepen the kiss. Their tongues meet and _oh yesss – _it feels marvelous.

Sherlock groans into his mouth, tasting John experimentally as he maneuvers his hands down to his waist again. With a gentle push, their hips rub against each other. John pulls for air, moaning in ecstasy. Sherlock resumes. He bites onto John's neck, wanting to gain more access to the doctor. And John allows him, darting his head to the side, realizing that they should nest on the couch. The intensity makes it difficult for John to stand any longer. He needs to sit down (or, preferably,_ lay_ down) so they may continue.

Sherlock seems to have thought of the same thing, because he's suddenly pushing the doctor down onto the couch in a hurry, starting to remove his companion's clothing. John observes Sherlock taking control. He feels his head spin. He could have sworn this happened before, but he ignores the thought once again, because it's too brief and pointless to think about. He's dreamt of this so many times, after all, that it's no wonder it feels familiar.

He just wants to share this special moment with Sherlock, and even though he's yet to confess his actual feelings, it must be mutual because why else could Sherlock even continue, if he didn't feel the same for the doctor?

John sees his shirt and sweater draped on the floor, in a tiny pile of their messy lust. He exhales heavily when Sherlock maps his body with sweet kisses and lowers his head down to John's stomach. He arches his back, moaning the detective's name in sweet bliss.

The other hums John's name in return and when he was about to go to undo the doctor's trousers, they hear a sweet voice, returning them to their actual surroundings.

"John, do you still want that tea, dear?" Mrs Hudson calls from the bottom of the staircase.

The pair instantly eye each other, unsure what to do. John clears his throat. "I'll be down in a bit!"

"Get Sherlock to come down, too, and we can catch up!" And she sounds so casual about it, as if she isn't shocked at all that Sherlock faked his own suicide and has returned. But then again, that could be business as usual, couldn't it?

Her voice disappears and she's moved away from the stairs, unaware whatsoever as to the shenanigans occurring in the living room above her.

The idea of it all makes John chuckle, and Sherlock joins him with a warm smile; and _oh, _this is something different. Sherlock smiling at John after all that? Their friendship immediately restored after their argument; and that's the idea with friends, right? Kiss and make up? Then again, the detective always finds reasons to beam at the doctor.

Sherlock gives room for John and idly walks into the kitchen, so John can put back his clothes on. Before reaching the stairs, they share a look, like something is blossoming between them both. And John doesn't feel any heartache anymore, but instead, something warm and fulfilling.

Their random gallivanting of words full of distaste was no more, and there wasn't any room for it. However, John would still like to know how Sherlock escaped his death on that dreadful day. But he knows, at least, that Sherlock is going to remain by his side for good, now.

The detective brushes his lips against John's cheek in a movement of affection as they start to go down the stairs. John stares at him and he seems to recognize a different face – as if it was someone else smiling happily at him. He returns the gesture.

"Thank you for keeping your promise." John says very softly and he doesn't know why he says it, but he means it in the bottom of his heart. Sherlock turns to his companion with a questioning look. "Oh. N-nothing. I said that I'm glad to be home." And Sherlock pulls John into another kiss before they meet their landlady for tea.


	9. Epilogue

**Dreaming's notes: Oh, thank you all so incredibly much for all your support! I'm a little jealous I can't reply to all your reviews like Anna can, but I am so happy to go to her page each day and see which new one you guys have added. You are all fantastically supportive for our wild little idea, and that means more to me than you know. #heart# —Anyway, thank you again, and I hope you enjoy our final chapter! This has been so fun for me, and I hope you all get the benefit of another collab story between myself and Anna again sometimes soon! Tootles. ;D**

**Aerorolo's notes: My feelings for this fic, is the same as Ari's XD I'm very very thrilled to see and read the response for this fic! It makes me so happy. I've enjoyed writing this very much and I hope you all enjoyed reading it as much as we did :'D **I'm so grateful to have Ari write this with me and hopefully, there'll be another collab story C: **Just thank you so much for the interest and support! Let me love you all downnnn~ Thank you for reading! xxx**

* * *

><p>Chapter 9: Epilogue<p>

* * *

><p>"So that was how you did it, then? Very clever, Sherlock!" Mrs. Hudson congratulates him with a pat on the back. "I would have never suspected!"<p>

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock smiles. He peers over at John and awaits the doctor's own response. He sips at his tea and pretends, however, that he isn't half as eager as he is to know.

John exhales slowly and huffs a sort of dry laugh. "Having Molly store a pint or so of your blood, using a body double like Irene Adler, and using a cable from your waist while you fell, something you secured after Moriarty shot himself," John summarizes in awe. He shakes his head. "And then your pulse? You disguised it with that stupid rubber ball I saw you playing with in the lab?"

"Correct, John," Sherlock says. He normally hates it when people recap what he just explained to them, but with John, he lets it slide, because he knows it's a manner of acceptance. Also, he admittedly likes hearing the man's voice (he visited the hospital many times during the night while John was asleep and the defenses of the place were at their most vulnerable; it ached to see his dear friend in that state, but he had to keep his eye on him, and now, he's just eternally grateful to be able to hear John's voice again).

"You're a real prat, Sherlock," John huffs with another weak laugh. "Putting me through all that."

"I told you to keep your eyes fixed on me," Sherlock murmurs in his defense. He takes another slurp of tea. "If you had, you would have noticed how carefully I fell, and how I had landed. And it only took the right people in advance to be there at the bottom to spread the blood over me. Some lads from the hospital, in fact; that's why I was found so quickly, even being outside of St. Bart's itself. And those women holding you back from me; I told them to. If you believed my death the most, then Moriarty's men would follow suit. It was horrible deceit, I know, and for that, I'm sorry. But it was necessary."

"When I think on it," John says softly, "What really bothers me is the fact that so many people were willing to help a man fake his own death. How can their conscious be clear, knowing that?"

"Yours wouldn't be, of course; you knew me. But these people didn't have an inkling as to who I was. They didn't care about a Sherlock Holmes, and some of them were my homeless allies, people who did anything for money. And what would it matter, anyhow, if their conscious told them to confess to the police about helping a man fake his death? No one would believe them," Sherlock explains. He sighs and rubs his forehead. "It's rotten business, I know. But it needed to be done. I wouldn't… I _couldn't_ stand to let Moriarty or his men murder you, John. You or _any_ of the other few, select people I care about."

"Alright, fine," John sighs. "But I'm only forgiving you for this because I know you won't try it again."

"And if, for whatever reason, I need to do this again, you'll be the first to know, and the main person to get me out of suspicion," Sherlock swears.

"Damn right," John says firmly, but he's smiling again soon. "Mrs. Hudson, would you mind getting more tea?"

"Anything for you boys," the older woman agrees kindly. She takes the teapot and brings it into the kitchen, putting more water on the boil in the kettle.

"If it's any consolation," Sherlock murmurs as he glances down at his empty cup, and John returns his attention to him. "I did often visit you in the hospital, during your coma. I disguised myself, of course; I wore a ginger wig, and wire-rimmed glasses, and a more unique style of clothing. And when asked, I went under the alias 'Benedict Cumberbatch' – something obviously fabricated, but just unusual enough to be convincing, and of course, it _was _convincing because Mycroft made me the ID – and I spoke to you often. That's what people do, isn't it? Speak to coma patients to help wake them?"

"Yes, that's what people do," John whispers, staring stupidly at the other. He feels touched and amazed and a bit… a bit like a fool, because Sherlock Holmes is one for disguise, and he is such a wonder. And – and something about all of that is incredibly vaguely familiar, and somehow, John is reminded again of a promise and all of his coma-induced dreaming. He smiles. "Thanks for that, Sherlock."

Sherlock would blush were he the type; he waves it off and glances away. He clears his throat when Mrs. Hudson soon returns with their fresh tea, and he holds out his cup to the little teapot.

And so the three residents of 221 Baker street enjoy a quiet evening together, catching up and enjoying each other's presences after all of the pain, grief, deceit, and illness.

Somewhere in Mrs. Hudson's room, a clock chimes, and idly, John thinks how wonderful it is that clocks forever move clockwise, in one direction, much like the flow of life.

XXX

"Oh, I love black widows!" Sherlock cheers as Lestrade texts him about the current puzzle in the police about a chain of men linked to a single woman who keep dying by accidental deaths. "They're a lot like serial killers, but they're a lot more foolish because they think they're safe in their years between kills, and they think all their saved money from collected life insurances will protect them, but how wrong they are! Come along, John, we need to inspect the most recent body and see if we can't track down this woman. She's the sort who changed identity between marriages, too, which is loads of fun!"

He's putting on his coat, scarf, and gloves while he speaks, and outside, snow covers the streets and buildings and rushes through the air from the wind. Part of John is extremely hesitant in going outdoors into the brisk chill of a London winter day, but he knows he has no choice. There's no stopping Sherlock once he's fired up and all triggered like this.

"Just don't be too obvious this time when we go to the crime scene, got me? I think Anderson's beginning to think you're back, and no one but Lestrade on the police force is supposed to know you've been back and alive for three months," John reminds. He shimmies into his own jacket and zips it up.

Sherlock pecks John on the mouth and heads for the door, opening it wide. "Mm, no, Anderson's too stupid to figure it out. Sally might, though, and that's why I will be careful. Can't have word getting out yet! I'm still too freshly in the media. Need to wait a couple more years, I think, before they won't associate me with the former Sherlock Holmes. It'll work itself out as long as I don't wear that godforsaken deerstalker, which is the only good thing to become of this, since I despised that hat." He turns, then, to look John in the eye. "You're going to be cold."

"I'll survive," John retorts, shrugging it off by putting his hands into his pockets. "We should get going."

"I'm buying you a scarf and matching gloves for Christmas. Maybe even mittens," Sherlock notes aloud, and John starts shoving Sherlock out the door.

"Let's see to that dead man first," John replies. He's smiling affectionately, however. He stops pushing on Sherlock's back long enough to stand on his toes and beck the man on the ear. "But I am not going to wear mittens if you buy them."

"What if I make them myself instead? Would you wear them then?" Sherlock argues as they make their way down the stairs, John pausing to lock up their flat. They don't use the second bedroom upstairs any longer; John stays in Sherlock's with him.

"You can't knit!" John contradicts, and Sherlock grins.

"I can learn. Shouldn't be too difficult to figure out. So, would you?"

"No, not even then," John answers.

"What if I bought you a scarf to match mine?" Sherlock eggs on, fully enjoying wasting their time before they reach the crime scene. They open the front door and feel the bracing wind on their faces, a few snowflakes clinging to their hair and eyelashes.

"Then I would feel insulted, like you were treating me like your little housewife, and then I would be confused why you would be so domestic as that," John chuckles, and Sherlock grins in reply.

"Well, it's a good thing I don't plan on doing any of that, then. Buy your own damn scarf and gloves if you get cold. That's what any _smart _person would do." And with that, John shoves him and climbs into the cab they called before Sherlock can protest, and soon the doctor and the consulting detective are riding on their way to one of their favorite places to be: a crime scene.

(End.)


End file.
